


Diplomatic Immunity

by Not_You



Series: Culture Shock [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bathing/Washing, Calm Down Erik, Charles You Slut, Cuddling & Snuggling, Culture Shock, Deepthroating, Emma Frost HBIC, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erik has Issues, Erik is not quite over this just yet, Face-Fucking, Field Trip, Genosha, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Holidays, M/M, Memories, Misunderstandings, Negotiations, Original Mythology, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Slavery, Poor Erik, Rimming, Scratching, Slavery, Slow Burn, Telepathy, Theatre, Trevor Fitzroy is a douche, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Worldbuilding, bowlderization is the enemy, it was dealt with appropriately under westchester law though, mention of child sexual abuse, really it's indenture, risk of famine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 22,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2458256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik has just finished helping liberate Genosha, and is still very scarred by his own time as a slave.  He has no way to realize that in Westchester, 'slave,' means something more like, 'an indentured servant who has human rights and whose owner is responsible for their care and keeping to the terms of the indenture contract.'</p><p>So of course, he can't <i>possibly</i> exploit the beautiful boy he finds in his bed.  Charles is extremely put out by this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Erik steps out of the carriage, and sighs, breathing in the cool, clear air of Westchester. It's a relief after the summer heat of Genosha, but nothing can really touch Erik's tension right now. Westchester is a slave nation, and he still doesn't feel right about Genosha having any dealings with such a place. They claim their system is different, but Erik will believe that when someone who isn't a visiting dignitary sees it. As the Genoshan ambassador, Erik has been looked after since the moment he set foot on Westchester soil by well-dressed, well-fed slaves who claim to be happy in their lot. It makes Erik sick, but he manages a smile when another one comes out of the palace, smiling at him. She's a pretty girl, with auburn hair and an ornamental collar of beaten gold. All Westchester slaves wear collars, the design and materials varying with task and owner's income level.

"Greetings, your excellency. The household staff will handle your baggage if you'll come and take some refreshment after your journey."

Erik thanks her and bows, because it's all he can do. At least collars aren't numbers. His left forearm burns, a horrible prickling self-consciousness of the skin itself, still marred after all these years. He follows the girl over snow white marble floors and into a beautiful parlor. Well, Erik thinks of it as a parlor. It might be a salon or receiving room or some such garbage, but Erik's thoughts are his own. The girl smiles sweetly at him and gestures for him to sit down at a small, glass table. It's a beautiful, impossible-looking thing, and so is the chair, metal humming in his awareness. It's more comfortable than it looks, and holds his weight easily. He relaxes, just a little.

"Tea or wine, your excellency?" the girl asks with a smaller, more genuine smile.

"Tea, please." Erik always negotiates sober, even when he would really rather not. There are several choices and he has only had one of them, but chooses the one that the guides describe as a mild stimulant, because it has already been a long day and he'll need the help, whatever it tastes like. She bows slightly, and goes away for a few minutes, leaving Erik to examine the room. He knows not to gawk like the dumb little country boy he still sort of is, but he does love beautiful things, and the room is full of them. An orrery of silver and crystal, shimmering in the light of the afternoon sun and tinted in a rainbow of colors by the stained glass window. The design is abstract, but shows the history of the Frost clan, only some of the meanings given to outsiders.

The girl comes back just as Erik is contemplating the portrait over the fireplace of the previous Lady Frost. This is a peculiar principality, always given to the eldest daughter and held by her as lady regnant. The system is not unheard of, but it more common further north than it is within the bounds of Westchester. "It's beautiful work, isn't it, your excellency?"

Erik nods. "Very. Thank you." The tea smells bitter and sharp, but Erik doesn't mind that kind of thing. He adds some honey since it's on the tray, and a bit of milk for the same reason. It's easier to keep cattle in Westchester, and Erik is still trying to get used to this abundance even as he desperately misses real sugar. He smiles, since that's part of what he's here to talk about. The honey does compliment the tea, though, and he tastes it thoughtfully. He feels guilty when he looks up and sees the girl still standing there. She'll be punished if he doesn't say something positive. He swallows around the knot that tries to form in his throat. "It's very good. What's this blend called, again?"

"Sunrise, your excellency. One part red tea to three parts sunblossom to two parts blackroot."

"I see. Thank you." He sips it thoughtfully as Lady Frost makes him wait. She does technically have the right to, and it's only a few minutes. He hasn't even finished he tea, but he sets it down, standing until she takes her seat, smiling at him. She's very beautiful, but in a deadly, obvious kind of way that Erik can't quite trust.

 _Good afternoon,_ she says, her voice making music in his mind. _I trust your journey was a pleasant one?_

_Once I could finally begin, your ladyship, yes._

She laughs, and he hears it strangely doubled before she slips out of his mind and leaves him to listen with his ears alone. "I know, getting out of Oakwood can be very trying. Moira, darling, get me some tea. Zenith blend, though." Moira bows, and vanishes again. Erik tamps down his feelings about slavery. The Westchester population will have to have its own damned revolution. Genosha is facing famine if he fucks this up. "If I have sunrise this late in the day it keeps me awake."

"I find that I could use the help and am enjoying the taste."

"Lovely. Now, there's no need to discuss business today. We're going to have some tea, and I'll show you the gardens, and then you can retire to your room until dinner. I hate negotiating when I don't feel settled, and I don't expect it of anyone else."

Erik would rather just get it over with, but he smiles. "A very pleasant itinerary, your ladyship."

It's nothing but useless commonplaces after that, Erik remarking on how nice it is to have so much milk and Frost promising beef for dinner because it's a treat for a Genoshan, even though fish is currently fashionable in Westchester. Soon one bowl of gruel a day might be a treat for a Genoshan, and Erik sips his tea slowly, trying to decide on the best way to approach Frost.


	2. Chapter 2

The Frost gardens are legendary, and Erik sees why as his hostess takes him through them. Not anything like all of them, but the highlights. It is the greatest of honors to be walked along the marble paths by the proprietress herself, almost unheard of, and Erik tries to keep that in mind as he does not stare at the two young girls holding the train of her white gown. Their collars are silver, and like Moira and every other slave he has seen here, they _seem_ healthy and content. As Frost tells him about each point of interest, Erik struggles to pay attention to the pond of glowing fish, the arbor of singing flowers, and the roses that are a different color to each observer. For Erik they're a deep, clear blue, and Frost smiles when he says so. "I see a sort of silvery purple." She leans and smells one, her face relaxed and beautiful. Erik sees a few more slaves tending plants, and has to count to ten in his head more than once. He must think of Genosha, and nothing else.

It gets a little easier when Moira leads him to his room, because the place is so wonderful that for a moment it distracts Erik completely. "It is not what we would usually give to someone of your excellency's status," Moira says, holding the door open for him, "but the Lady thought you might appreciate it."

Erik does appreciate it, stepping slowly into a low, old room that was a smithy in some long-ago year. The rafters are blackened with ancient soot, and old tools hang on the walls for decoration, their pure metals and perfect construction singing to him. "It's beautiful," he says without thinking, and looks around to see Moira's smile.

"Come, your excellency," she says, and shows him the sunken bath and the massive bed. He lives well in Genosha, but the new state doesn't have time or resources for this kind of opulence. Everything is hung and upholstered in dark, rich red, and all the decorative stonework matches. There's already a roaring fire, and Erik is very happy to be left alone to bathe and to take a catnap in the softest bed he has ever experienced. The warmth and the red and the soothing song of metal makes his quarters womblike, and he sleeps better than he has yet on this journey.

He wakes up when he wants to, a skill honed during the war, and a moment later he hears a bell ringing. A pale, gangling boy is holding it, and he smiles at Erik, light gleaming off of his gold collar and off of a pair of spectacles, something almost no Genoshan slave had ever had, no matter how badly they had needed it.

"I'm here to prepare your bath, your excellency. Do you have a scent preference?"

Erik blinks at him slowly, because this is not the kind of question he confronts on a regular basis. "...What do you think would suit me?" He feels horrible as soon as he says it, since slaves tend to be punished for making decisions, but the boy's smile just widens.

"I'll make you a nice blend, your excellency." 

Erik sits there stupidly as the boy pads off to the bath, and then gets up and lays out his clothes, since of course he must dress for dinner here. The boy comes back in to say that the bath is ready, and looks a little dismayed. "I was supposed to do that, your excellency."

"Please don't worry about it," Erik says, trying not to sound too guilty. "We don't have-- we don't have lot of staff in Genosha." To his profound relief, the boy smiles again.

"So I suppose you won't need any help, your excellency?"

Erik will not, and says as much before going over to the bath and pulling off his nightshirt. He hasn't had this much fresh, hot water at his disposal in... ever, and it really does smell wonderful. Something complex and not too sweet or floral. He can't help a soft groan as he slides into the water, and soaks in utter contentment, only opening one eye when the boy comes back with towels. The boy smiles and sets down a stack of beautiful, soft towels, the buff color of unbleached cotton. "Anything else I can do, your excellency?"

"Mm. Tell me your name and downgrade to 'sir,' perhaps?"

"Would you prefer that from everyone, sir?"

"Please."

"Very good, sir. I am Henry McCoy, but people call me Hank."

Erik thanks him, and Hank pads out of the room again on those soft-soled slippers Westchester houseslaves wear. Erik is thoughtful as he bathes and then dries off, barely noticing that the towels are even softer than they look. He wonders where the others are hidden, and what 'disciplinary measures' are in place. He thinks of how subtle and terrible Frost's methods could be, and shudders all over, stomach knotting up. He takes a few deep breaths, and then pulls on his clothing, piece by piece. Westchester formal wear consists of many layers, particularly in the north, and fussy as it all is, there's a certain appeal. Tight, footed leggings have some into fashion here, working their way overland from the east, and Erik is just glad that codpieces haven't come with them. In Westchester a man can wear a nice, respectable tunic that hits a few inches above the knee, covering everything in a sensible and decent manner. Erik doesn't know what he's going to do if codpieces _do _come into style. Resign, probably.__

He sighs, and checks himself in the mirror to make sure that his black is depthless and his silver bright, and straightens the Genoshan emblem on his chest. The Sacred Helix, picked out in silver and the whole visible spectrum on the front of his tunic. Here and there are very small gems, and they glimmer subtly as he moves. He runs his hand over it for a comfort, and then steps out of his quarters, unsurprised to see Hank there, waiting to escort him to dinner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not sure where this stands relative to the spam policy here, but as far as I know only eighty-seven people in the whole world have bought my book. If you would like to change the number (or haven't heard,) it's Hellhound, by Rose Burnhouse, through Less Than Three Press. It's a gay paranormal yarn where human traffickers are thwarted, demons are not always bad, and fuckbuddies begin to stagger their way toward true love.
> 
> I'm working on a sequel! Get in on the ground floor! :D


	3. Chapter 3

Erik has at least a little training now, so it's easier not to gawp like an idiot at the tables of the rich and great, but this one is quite a challenge. The ice sculptures alone would be worth staring at, to say nothing of his hostess's beauty or that of the flower arrangements. Frost rises to greet him, and he bows over her hand in the Westchester way, just barely brushing her knuckles with his lips. She smiles graciously, and once Erik is seated the meal begins.

They eat courses in Genosha, but usually only three, and that on real occasions. Because Erik is not enough of a fool to not study the customs of whatever nation he visits, he knows there are going to be six tonight, possibly seven. First a delicate cream soup made of some kind of northern gourd that Erik has never had. Sometimes back home he's afraid of the poor children setting root and putting out vines, they eat so many gourds, but this one has a unique flavor. Next are savory tarts, made of a small and delicious songbird and onions, and then a palate-cleansing fresh salad. Unlike at home this is quite a show of wealth, since all the local gardens are fading down into winter and the lettuces are one of the first things to go and must be ordered from further south. It's crisp and good and light, and prepares Erik perfectly for the beef to follow. On any island meat is always at a premium, and on Genosha, where the place has been over-hunted and over-forested for the selfish lusts of the elite, it's more the case than ever. Erik has one of the highest ranks in their new society, and can go a week at a time with no meat besides the fat white farmed fish from inside what Westchester citizens would think of as the palace grounds. Now he tries not to enjoy his steak too obviously, or to snatch it down his gullet in three swallows like a dog.

Throughout the meal he and Frost exchange pleasantries and commonplaces, and Erik manages to keep up his side even as he forces himself to savor each tiny bite of beef like a civilized person, and tries to keep his patience. Frost is one of those gracious types, so of course they can't discuss business until after the beef, some kind of vegetable almost-tart made out of 'winter vegetables' which are collection of orange and brown and white things that taste like sweet dirt, and then some kind of honey cake and tea. Both of these things count as their own course, apparently. All through the interminable meal, there are girls in silver and copper collars gliding around, setting things out and taking them away and making Erik nervous because he will never be used to being waited on. They're lovely creatures, with the same contented aspect that has been driving Erik mad this entire time, and that doesn't help at all. Frost just smiles at him over the rim of her teacup, and at long, long last, they can go to her conference room and really get started, various ministers and scholars rolling in from their own late dinners.

Sitting at the massive table and laying out the advantages of cheap Genoshan sugar, Erik finally feels like he's in his element again. Sugar and spice exports he understands completely, along with with currencies involved, since Genosha uses its own golden helices, silver Westchester crescents, and the bronze coin from the far south. The northern bounds of Westchester use the crescent and the golden serpent, which weighs more than the helix but is not quite so pure. One of the scholars keeps up with Erik, flicking silver beads on a beautiful abacus.

For all her affability, Frost haggles without mercy, but Erik cannot afford to back down, and really doesn't have to, if he plays his cards right. Hours later they have come to a tentative agreement about fireseed, and it's time to go to bed. Hank has returned for Erik, who's tired, and doesn't really listen to whatever Hank is saying, just making a dismissive gesture at the door because he does not need to be helped out of his clothes or into his bed, and he wants to sit up for a bit anyway. He strips down to his skin and throws on a simple robe before finding his account book and wandering into the bedroom.

At first Erik doesn't see the boy. It's a wide bed, with a lot of blankets because the nights are miserably cold at this time of the Westchester year. He climbs in under the quilts and fur and makes a small, contented noise, settling into the pillow and only then realizing that the covers are far too warm. He sits upright, eyes wide, and the blankets shift, someone stretching under them before he pokes his head out.

"Good evening, sir!" His eyes are almost as blue as the magic roses, and for a long moment Erik just stares. And then he sees the collar, bright platinum singing to his senses.

"A-are you..."

"I'm your bedslave, sir!" he beams, looking so young and so proud of himself that it breaks Erik's heart. "I'm here to serve you for the duration of your visit, and I must say I'm pleased about it."

"...You are?"

"You are familiar with mirrors, sir?" he says it with nearly real concern, and just a bit of nearly-hidden archness that makes him even more adorable. "I really do think we could have a good time, sir."

"Perhaps," Erik concedes, cock starting to fill a little just looking at the boy, "but I don't sleep with slaves."

The boy pouts. "Why not?"

Erik sighs. "Because... what's your name, child?"

"Charles, sir." He smiles again before apparently remembering that Erik is refusing him. "But what's the problem?"

How can Erik even begin to explain? He looks into the boy's clear, questioning eyes, and takes a deep breath, trying to figure out how to begin.


	4. Chapter 4

Erik hadn't been pretty at the most dangerous age, and had been in general so gaunt and unappealing while working so efficiently that he had skipped through to liberation unscathed in that particular way. Not many of his friends had been so lucky. He balls his hands up in the fine linen of the sheet, creasing it and not caring at all, even knowing that some poor slave will be expected to fix it.

"I'm that poor slave, sir," Charles says acidly. "Being a bedslave isn't just about the fucking."

Erik takes a deep breath and forces himself to let go of the sheet, struggling to latch onto the curiosity and joy that overtake him whenever someone reveals their gift. _You're a telepath?_ He always feels silly when he's the one to begin a telepathic conversation, but over the years he has learned not to shout and to enunciate properly, to use real words and not just emotions, knowledge, or pictures.

_I am. And I'm getting glimpses of what 'slave' means to you, and I think what we have here is a cultural-linguistic problem._

"We have an ethical problem," Erik says, nettled. "You are not free to choose whether or not I fuck you, therefore you cannot consent, therefore I am not fucking you!" He sighs, rubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes and hoping the growing ache behind them won't get much worse. "God, I'm tired."

"Then we won't argue any more, sir," Charles says, voice very gentle and full of what sounds like genuine sympathy. "Can you accept that I think you're a lovely man who could use a hug and some sleep?"

Erik knows he should ring for someone else and make a fuss about this, but he's exhausted and being held sounds better than it should. He suddenly feels a thousand years old, and sets the account book aside and lowers himself down into the bed like his bones are spun glass. "Fine," he mutters. "For tonight, anyway."

"Good," Charles says softly, and lowers the lights before lying beside Erik, pressing up against him and wrapping an arm over him. One leg as well, but delicately, only making contact at the knee and lower. It's actually very comforting. Erik sighs and turns toward Charles just a little, fitting them together. He's tired enough to pretend not to notice that Charles is completely naked, and his robe divides them anyway. The whole thing is really almost innocent, and he starts to slowly rub Charles's back without thinking about it, the motion slowing as they both drift toward sleep. Charles's breathing is slow and somehow incredibly soothing. Erik finds his own falling into rhythm with it.

_?_

_I am using my powers, sir. Just a little bit. You need your rest._

Erik replies with a sleepy noise and a formless sense of not minding, and eases into a dream of soft rain and the smell of the flowers in his mother's garden before the slavers had come. He doesn't remember it when he wakes up, but for a moment he feels an ease and contentment that he hasn't since childhood. And then he remembers who and where he is, and that the beautiful boy cuddled in against his chest is a Westchester bedslave. Charles's thighs are gripping one of Erik's now, morning erection hot through the thin fabric, and his face is nestled in the crook of Erik's neck, his breath and his lips soft and warm against the sensitive skin. Erik shivers, and Charles moans quietly in his sleep, hips rolling slowly and firmly against Erik and making him want to grip that round ass and _make_ Charles move... The shame is sudden and scalding, and it must be loud, too, because Charles scrambles away almost before his eyes are open, blushing.

"I'm sorry!" Erik hears it in his mind, too, the same doubled effect he has experienced with Frost.

"It's all right," he says, and sits up, rubbing his eyes.

"Sir, I really wish you'd let me help you with that," Charles says, gesturing delicately to the tent Erik is making of the sheet. Erik grumbles and snatches the quilts and furs over himself. Aside from needing concealment, it's colder than ever. Charles gives him a sympathetic smile, and calls out, "Hank? Are you here yet?"

"Of course, Charles," Hank says from somewhere outside the curtains. "I'm getting the fire built up now. Is the ambassador awake?"

"I am," Erik says, before Charles can make any of the jokes he is clearly thinking of.

"In that case, sir," Hank says, his voice coming closer, "would you like full breakfast, half breakfast, or a cup of tea and to be left alone?"

Erik sighs, because what he really wants is coffee, which is still almost unknown here. "Full breakfast, please, and whatever Charles needs." The full Westchester breakfast is massive and fatty, just the thing for this wretched climate. Charles just asks to be remembered on Erik's tray, and for his own cup of sunrise tea. Once Hank has left with their order, Charles hops up, still half-hard, and plunges into the cold beyond the curtains, coming back with robes for both of them. Clothed, he's only a little less distracting.

"Come and sit by the fire, sir," he says, and Erik does, shivering a little even as the room warms. Charles pats his shoulder and disappears for a bit, coming back with warm water for Erik to bathe his face and hands. That done, he settles on the floor and washes and dries Erik's feet as if this is the most unremarkable thing in the world. His touch is gentle and assured, and Erik does his best to keep breathing and not get hard again.

Mercifully, Charles is done with his task before Hank returns, so Erik can greet him with a straight face. Hank smiles, and sets the tray down on the table. By this point Erik can move that far from the fire and not worry about forming icicles on his stubble, so he does, thanking Hank for his assistance and passing the jar of honey to Charles before loading his own plate.


	5. Chapter 5

"Sir, what does one generally eat in Genosha?" The tray rests on the table between them, bearing what remains of an enormous platter of cured and crisped pork, a tall stack of some kind of pancake, sausages, apple slices, buttered toast, fried mushrooms, fried potato chunks, a small pot of strange white beans in a curiously sweet sauce that Erik does _not_ care for, and a bowl of soft-boiled eggs, served in their shells to conserve heat. Charles is nibbling on a last slice of pork between sips of tea. As far as Erik can tell, he truly isn't very hungry in the morning. Having smuggled half his food ration to his mother in the slave camps, he knows what it looks like when an actually hungry person isn't eating. Charles seems genuinely content, and only academically interested in Genoshan breakfasts.

"Not nearly this much for breakfast," Erik says after swallowing a last bite of potato. "And of course, made of what we can get. Yams and gourds figure prominently, as porridge or pancakes, and can be sweet with cane syrup or savory with fish soup or chili paste."

"And is that all?" Charles looks a bit pitying, and it makes Erik laugh.

"Often it's all we need. And the poor people live on gourds for every meal. That's part of why I'm here, after all."

Charles nods. "Here it's barley porridge and rabbit, I think."

"What I'd give for some rabbit! They're unknown on the island, and far too much of the game has been hunted out. Right now we have an injunction against it, barring special circumstances, such as being very poor and having many children."

"Oh." Charles looks sorry to have brought it up, and Erik smiles.

"We do, however, have coffee, of which you poor, deprived and benighted people know nothing."

Charles laughs and it makes him even more beautiful. "So I hear! I do hope you'll be able to make an agreement with Lady Frost about coffee, sir. I have long wanted to try it."

"We also have fruit juices," Erik adds, "and people with the right gifts to transport them." He glances at the cunningly-made little silver clock on one of the shelves. "I'll see how far we get before lunch."

"Is that the time already, sir? Good God."

Erik laughs, and goes off to dress, surprised to come back to find Charles managing shaving supplies. "I usually do this for myself, you know."

"Oh? Rest assured, sir, this will be more pleasant." He gestures for Erik to sit down, and he does, cautiously. Charles turns out to be right, though. This whole performance with the hot towel and the strangely rich lather and Charles's careful and indulgent hand on the blade is really something. Erik doesn't have the patience to follow his own curves this well and is usually only saved from cuts by his very exact knowledge of where the blade is in relation to himself. Charles is gentle, and his awareness is warm against Erik's mind, riding along with him to know of anything even a little like discomfort before it truly starts. Erik finds himself almost dozing before Charles is done, and jumps a little at the chill when he pulls the towel away. "Sorry, sir," Charles says softly, and kisses his cheek, a little shock of warmth that makes Erik shiver.

"...You're forgiven," Erik mutters, and gets up, running a hand over his jaw. It's at least as smooth as he manages on his own, and more comfortable. There's probably something to all this lotion business. "I'm a grown man and can dress myself, however."

Charles laughs. "Always depriving me, sir! I'll be here when you return, whenever that is."

Erik does his best not to shiver, and as he dresses in the simpler style suited to a morning meeting he resolves to talk to Lady Frost about his bedslave. ...In a way that won't get the boy into trouble. Erik stops in the act of belting his tunic, meeting his eyes in the mirror and silently asking himself how much more of this he can possibly take. The answer, of course, is that he'll take whatever he needs to for the people of Genosha. He reminds himself very sternly, and walks into the larger room again to find Charles pouring another cup of tea with a leisure Erik has never seen in any slave.

"Charles?"

"Yes, sir?"

Erik blinks, studying him. "Nothing."

"All right, then. Have a pleasant day, sir." He settles right back in his chair, truly at home. Erik nods, and walks out, wondering what the hell is going on and becoming more and more sure that he's being duped somehow. He tucks his suspicion and anger away, though, and manages to speak pleasantly to Hank, who has come to fetch him. Erik is a bit surprised at the continuity, and asks Hank about it as they walk.

"It's because I'm your runner, sir." He taps his gold collar. "Normally I don't do this kind of work, but for someone of your rank a 'superior' runner is needed to fetch and carry and conduct for them. Between you and me," he adds, suddenly confiding, "I'm not actually very good at this kind of thing. I only wear gold because of my education."

"Gold is for those who serve the nobility most closely, yes?"

"Except for the bedslaves in their platinum, yes, sir."

"I see." Erik mulls this over for the rest of their walk, and then has to properly greet Lady Frost and exchange all the usual pleasantries, Hank and the same girl from last night fading into the background as Frost leads him into a conference room full of the usual suspects.


	6. Chapter 6

By midday, Erik is very glad to stop for a meal. Lady Frost is even more ruthless than her general reputation would suggest, and has backed him into a corner over grain imports. At least there's still a good chance of gaining the actual figure he wants on domestic meat. Game has gone by the wayside as too expensive, but that's really no human's fault. The previous winter had been so brutal that the animal populations are still recovering, and Erik would not have Westchester empty its forests for Genosha's benefit. Well, unless it had to be done, but it doesn't. Have to be done. He groans and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands the second Hank leaves him alone in his quarters, taking his order for a large lunch down to the kitchens.

Charles comes slipping out from between the curtains around the bed, with a sympathetic look on his face. "Sir, are you all right?"

"Just a headache. Oh damn, I forgot you in my order. Are you hungry?"

"I am, but I just told Hank what I wanted, so it's fine, sir." He smiles. "There are many reasons that telepaths are prized bedslaves."

Erik sighs, nodding vaguely and slumping into a chair. "I don't suppose you could..."

"Let me make you more comfortable, sir." He vanishes for a moment, and then comes back with a cool cloth for Erik's brow, that's large enough to cover his tired eyes as well. That done he opens the collar of Erik's tunic and uses another cloth to gently dab away his nervous sweat, and that caused by the roaring fires in every room. It seems like he's always either freezing or roasting in this miserable country, and Charles chuckles.

"It can be trying, sir, yes."

"Mm. Was I thinking very loudly?" Charles dries Erik's skin and refastens one button, leaving the others undone.

"A bit, yes." He wipes Erik's hands as well, and kneels at his feet, washing and drying them. "Is that better, sir?"

"Much," Erik murmurs. The headache is still there, but it's just a dull throb now.

"I can still feel your head aching, sir. Will you take something for it?"

Erik cannot help the surge of paranoid reluctance that shoots through him. He takes a deep breath, though, and calms himself. "...If I haven't been poisoned yet.."

Charles sighs, sounding wounded. "Oh, sir. Never mind. You rest here, and I'll be back in a moment." Erik waits, and sure enough Charles is back within three minutes. He apologizes even for that delay, and asks Erik to open his mouth. He does, feeling ridiculous and vulnerable, and Charles sends him a wave of reassurance as he places a small, smooth pastille of some kind of under Erik's tongue. It tastes like dusty flowers and starts to dissolve quickly. "There," Charles says when Erik's mouth is closed again. "That should help you, sir."

It does help, and Erik projects that information into Charles's mind.

Soon after that, Hank arrives with lunch, and Erik sits up, putting the cloth aside and feeling much better at just the scent of a nice piece of beef. Charles smiles at him, and after Hank is gone, gently asks him about it. "It's not just the taste, sir, or a craving for meat because of a lack of it." His smile turns apologetic. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to, of course."

"We were herders," Erik says quietly, cutting the steak into tiny and precise bits. "It was a staple, and considered the best of meats. Pork and some other meats were unclean to us, but a slave can't care about that." By the end of his sentence he sounds much more bitter than he wants to, and stops, swallowing hard and counting his breaths for a moment, eyes closed.

 _Erik?_ The mental touch is incredibly gentle, caressing and soothing, and Erik allows the physical one, Charles's hands on his shoulders. Erik feels like he's going to break if they share their horrors, and Charles hugs him tightly, telepathically as well as physically. _No, Erik. I left my horrors behind._

He shows Erik some memories, then. Of incredible wealth and a loveless house. Just Charles and his younger sister Raven as their mother drank more and more and their stepfather and his son became more abusive as if they were both working off the same sliding scale. Charles and Raven had been young, gifts undeveloped and not much help. After a beating that had left Charles in bed for two days, he had limped out when no one was looking, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a satchel. By that point Raven had been at one of Westchester's many boarding schools for the education of high-born ladies, keeping her safe.

Erik's anger glows like banked coals, ready to flare up into an inferno, and he can feel Charles's arms tightening around him. _I'm safe now, Erik, and I'm safe because I took the collar. See?_

Erik does see. He sees Charles limping into a well-appointed office, and being signed into a register before being led off by a short and hairy man who slices Charles's improvised bandages off with claws that slide out from between his knuckles before cleaning him and applying poultices and new dressings, and giving him several pastilles like the one he brought for Erik's headache earlier. There's a sense of time passing and of convalescence, and then Charles is carefully putting down his provisions for a contract. At the time he hadn't really cared, but the office staff had insisted, and he had offered himself up for domestic chores, clerical work, and as a bedslave. From there he shows Erik the auction, where he had knelt in his own little cubicle, wearing a white shift and looking beautiful, his contract resting on the low table in front of him as Frost had prowled around, examining the merchandise.


	7. Chapter 7

Erik blinks and comes back to himself at last, helped by Charles's physical voice. "Sir," he says, "Lady Frost saved me. Please eat, and I'll show you more of my life after."

"Probably for the best," Erik agrees, and takes a few deep breaths and a sip of the wine, which is dark and red and delicious. He savors it, and Charles smiles at him when he puts the glass down.

"Lovely, isn't it?"

"Very." Erik sighs, gazing into his cup as though it will show him a vision. "It brings back memories as well. Good ones." He takes a long drink, and concentrates on his food until it's gone, because he has no idea what to say. Charles is quiet as well, but the silence isn't uncomfortable. There are more winter vegetables, pale and baked tender like gourds, and a very bitter dark green that reminds him of his homeland. He eats it in slow, small bites, savoring the bitterness and having to swallow hard each time around the lump in his throat. Fortunately, the small wedge of cheese is enough of a novelty to bring him back to the present, and the savors the rich and complex tastes of it, slivers of toasted almond crunching between his teeth.

"This is fascinating," he says halfway through it, and Charles beams.

"One of my favorite desserts is a wedge of that baked with more almonds and whatever fruit preserves are available."

Erik chuckles. "I'm still not used to cheese at all. Especially as a sweet."

"We must broaden your horizons while you're here, sir," Charles says, and gives Erik a look that will haunt his dreams.

After they eat they take a moment to sit by the fire and sip a sweet wine that Hank brings them, with Frost's compliments. It's ice wine, of course. As they savor its clear, nectarous sweetness, Charles tells him all about it, how the grapes hang huge and golden, left on the vine until they freeze, concentrating their native sugars.

"They look like topazes when the sun hits the ice," Charles says, and delicately offers Erik a picture, which he is happy to receive. The sweet round grapes do look like topaz, and Erik feels a sudden urge to craft jewelry, an occasional hobby of his. Charles's delight at this accidental revelation makes Erik blush, and he has only just regained his composure when the clock strikes one and Hank comes to collect him back to the bargaining table.

By the time Erik is released to wander the gardens for a bit before dressing for dinner, he has finally admitted defeat over the grain, but has gotten a much better deal on mutton than he had expected, and Frost has agreed to a very good price for ten thousand baby chicks in good health, to add new blood to Genosha's inbred and hunger-depopulated poultry, as well as a very reasonable rate for salted beef. Soon they'll be done with food altogether, and will be on to dry goods, artifacts, and jewels. The oyster beds near Genosha produce some of the world's finest pearls, and Erik intends to work that for all it's worth. He stops under a tree and rubs his eyes, feeling tired again. Figures and commodities he can do, but diplomacy is hard. He had struggled to fit an objection to being assigned a bedslave into the conversation, but the moment had never come.

"Your excellency?" Hank murmurs, appearing at his elbow, making him jump and go for a sword he's not wearing. "Easy," Hank says gently, hands up in placation, and Erik feels suddenly ashamed of himself.

"Sorry. Time to dress?"

"Indeed, sir. Please come with me."

"I've fought for a long time," Erik hears himself saying, and it sounds like another apology.

"I know, sir. We followed the rebellion with interest and sympathy."

Erik chuckles. "Oh?"

"Yes, sir. Many of those who become slaves have no other choice, but the penalties for contract violations can include capital punishment."

"...What crimes earn it?"

Hank sighs. "There was a dreadful case, two years ago. In the Southwest. Sometimes when a family has gone deeply into debt, their children will be born into contracts."

Erik shudders in horror, and Hank glances over at him. "They don't take effect until the age of sixteen, and the rules are even more stringent. In this case, they were violated," he says, speaking very evenly, the way a man does when he's trying not to lose his temper. "Along with the children, sir."

Erik doesn't want to know how old they were. "And?"

"And their parents noticed them not eating and having nightmares, sir. The whole story came out when they were asked if anything bad or scary had happened lately, and once it was proved the bastard was hanged, and good fucking riddance. Sir."

"...And the debt?"

"Forgiven entirely, sir. With what he had done, he couldn't even repay them with his life. That's in the laws, too."

Erik spends the rest of the walk in silence, and is still turning this over when they reach his rooms. Of course there was no reprisal for that kind of thing in Genosha. Hank notices his abstraction and just lays out something in blue and vanishes until it's time to come back and escort Erik off to dine with Frost again. Charles is nowhere in sight at first, but emerges from the bathing chamber and smiles fondly at Erik, where he's standing there in his drawers and feeling like an idiot.

"I've gotten fresh linen with our proprietary scent blend, changed the pillows now that I know your preferences, and there's a hot bath waiting for you that I am hoping you will graciously allow me to share." He winks, and gestures for Erik to precede him into the chamber.


	8. Chapter 8

It is only after Charles assures Erik that he will only bathe whatever he can't reach that he allows him into the water. "Is this also a proprietary blend?" Erik asks, as another pretty flower-and-herb smell rises around them.

"They all are. Hank is working his way through a perfumer's apprenticeship." He smiles sadly, scrubbing Erik's upper back right where he still gets the occasional spot because he can't really reach it properly. "I'll miss him. His contract is almost up."

"Where will he go?"

"If you'll lean back and get it wet, I can wash your hair," Charles says, grabbing a bottle of something. "And Hank has already heard back from the house he'd like to mix for." Charles sighs, and supports Erik as he leans back, reasoning that Charles has already shaved his throat without cutting it. "There used to be a family business, but everything went wrong and Hank had to sell a few years to get properly started."

"How many years?"

"Five, I think, but that's a very good rate for a concurrent apprenticeship. He could have made enough money in just two, but he wanted to be certified and freed at the same time." Charles laughs, working something thick and cooling through Erik's hair. "Not that working for Lady Frost has really been a hardship for him."

"Oh?"

"He does a bit of bedwork, despite not having it in his initial contract." Charles's fingers rub hard, soothing circles on Erik's scalp, and he has to swallow a quiet and involuntary moan. "About six months in he renegotiated after dreaming about her at least once a week the entire time. It was deeply obnoxious." He works downward and back to knead the tense muscles at the base of Erik's skull. "Even if some of the dreams were a lot of fun."

"...I'll bet." He hisses softly as Charles finds a particularly tender spot and then groans aloud as he rolls his thumb over it in some possibly magical way that turns the pain into a kind of glowing warmth. Erik shudders and pulls away, muttering something about Charles having done enough as he briskly scrubs the rest of his body, taking care to barely touch his cock, which is threatening to harden at any moment. Erik manages to rinse his hair and clean everything else without embarrassing himself, but it's a near thing. After a time that seems much longer than it is, he can scramble out of the tub and dry off so quickly that he leaves his skin bright pink. Charles watches him with rueful amusement.

"I suppose you won't require any help with drying or dressing?"

"No, thank you."

Charles sighs in theatrical disappointment. "In that case, I'll just tidy up and be waiting for you after dinner."

Erik just nods, and goes into the other room to make himself presentable. The whole time he can hear Charles singing to himself, light and sweet and untrained, with plenty of wrong notes and little cracks. It's adorable, and he hurries out to dinner, so he'll think of trade and of how to get the most of out of Frost and nothing else.

It's another massive Westchester meal, beginning with fish soup this time. Erik has probably eaten more fish soup than anyone his age who isn't actually one of the indigenous people, but this is made in a very different style. It's creamy, and he eats it very slowly out of sheer fascination, flushing a little when he looks up to see Frost smiling at him in the manner he associates with adorable small children.

"Good, isn't it?"

"It is."

She obligingly tells him how it was made, and Erik works his way through the rest of the meal without projecting too much impatience. She still smirks at him over her teacup when everything else has been cleared away. "I prefer to take wine, but I know you won't drink and negotiate at the same time."

"Alas, I find that they are two pleasures that do not mix." Erik sips his tea and switches his focus to keeping back his sudden craving for a drink.

"Perhaps you'll join me in some, if we don't talk too late."

"Perhaps," Erik says, and downs the rest of his tea, waiting politely for his hostess to do the same. Once she finally does, in a series of elegant sips that really does seem too long, they can finally leave this festive board for the negotiation table. Erik is so much more comfortable there. Frost smiles at him as she leads the way, and soon all the scholars and advisers are around them again. Erik is starting to feel positively friendly about them. So helpful, and always there.

This evening they do manage to call an early halt, partially since Frost is prepared to pay quite a bit for the resist-dyed cloth the natives had added onto the bill of export goods. The most populous tribe, the Nziola, have a particularly bright yellow compounded by an old secret recipe, and Westchester is starved for color. Nziola yellow, the red any fool can compound out of the bloodblossoms, and that rich blue the Obwaarii make up in the hills go for the highest prices Erik had ever dared to entertain in his daydreams of undoing some of Genosha's poverty.

"Such a fine blue," Frost murmurs, after declaring herself done for the day and ordering the promised wine. The advisers have all bowed and left, presumably to order their own wine, and Frost is fingering one of the samples and holding the color to the light. "Do you know how they make it, or is this a trade secret too?"

"There's a blue stone in the hills that we have to assume they use, but it's even more secret than the yellow. That's just a tribe secret, mostly for trade. The blue is a religious secret. Their priestesses produce it." The little flicker of worry that crosses Frost's face almost makes him love her. "They have always sold it to fund the temple, though."

"Good. I prefer to respect women's secrets."


	9. Chapter 9

Frost turns out to be a fascinating woman, as well as one with an excellent wine cellar. Moira, whose name had escaped Erik the last time he had seen her, brings them something almost as dark and as red as blood. It's dry and rich and lingers on the tongue. It's good enough that between them they finish the bottle. Half a bottle of good red isn't enough to really send Erik reeling, not with a full meal before it. But it has lowered his inhibitions enough for him to tell Frost the joke about the peddler and the sheep, so he knows he's not entirely sober, either. Warm and full of loose-limbed goodwill he at last takes his leave of Frost, thanking her for her hospitality and bowing over her hand. He can still calculate distance finely enough to get close enough not to be ungallant without actually touching, which would be an enormous breach of etiquette.

Hank leads Erik back to his room, and it must be the wine that makes Erik ask him about sleeping with Frost. The boy blushes a scalding red, and stammers a bit before finding words. "I was a virgin when I came here, sir. I had no intention of offering bed service, being shy about it besides being inexperienced, but..." he shrugs, and a wide, silly smile starts to creep across his face. "Lady Frost has been very kind."

Erik laughs, and wishes him good luck with it at the entrance to his chambers. He closes the door behind him and turns to see Charles smiling at him as he lights a few more candles, bathing the room in their golden glow.

"Good evening, sir."

"And to you," Erik says stretching and yawning. He feels a little looser and a bit more like smiling, and only some of the that is the wine. Unless Frost is manipulating every single mind here on a level unprecedented in the history of gifted humans, these slaves at least, are well-treated and protected.

"How lovely!" Charles says, and Erik laughs at the chagrin that flashes over his face, like the expression of a child when it speaks out of turn during lessons.

"I was thinking loudly, then?" Erik asks, unbuckling his ornamented belt as he wanders over to the dressing table.

"Indeed, sir." He can feel Charles's gaze on him as he shrugs out of the doublet, and he glances over his shoulder, catching it and making Charles blush and lower his eyes. 

Erik chuckles. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes, sir. Hank brought me a tray while you and Lady Frost were dining."

"Did you get all the courses?"

Charles laughs. "No, sir, but only because I don't like a large dinner and because I hate that marinated chicken dish."

"I can't say I liked it much, myself," Erik admits. The chicken had been tender and good, aside from the sharp, almost acrid and entirely disagreeable seasoning.

"The herb is a regional delicacy, and one of the torments of my life. People put it in the most innocent-looking things, and then you take a bite and bam! Westchester nettle, right to the sinuses! Nettle broth is wonderful for fevers, though, so I've had to choke down plenty in my time." Charles is doing light dusting as he speaks, because winter interiors in Westchester are some of the dustiest places in the world.

"We make a tea from tree bark," Erik says, pulling off his leggings to relax by the fire in his tunic and drawers, idly undoing the fastenings down the front for comfort as he watches the flames.

"Shall I get your dressing gown, sir?" Charles murmurs, after a moment of comfortable silence.

"Please."

With the dressing gown wrapped around him and the tunic set aside, Erik feels like a purring cat, curling up in his massive armchair and dozing until Hank returns to offer them more tea and any food they might want. Years of deprivation make Erik ask for a few dried things and some nuts, despite still being full from dinner, and Charles smiles in silent sympathy.

The tea is a sleep-promoting blend, with a strange, dusty sweetness. Erik can't really decide if he likes it or not, but he keeps sipping, so he must not hate it. The dried assortment is good, strips of beef and some nice, dark-fleshed fish, along with dried cherries and plums, and a small dish of the little white nuts that come from the eastern kingdoms. He samples everything and then lets Charles cover the dishes for later. Erik is always soothed by having nonperishable food in his room, but it embarrasses him to ask for it while traveling. Charles gives him another sweet and knowing smile, and then crawls into bed to warm the sheets, reading from a blue-bound book as Erik putters around and cleans his teeth before coming to join him, purring at the heat and the soothing darkness when Charles sets his book aside and closes the curtains around the bed.

"You could've kept reading," Erik murmurs as Charles cuddles in against his chest like a pet, warm and soothing and nice to hold.

"Mm. I've read it before. It's what I do when I work, because I can put my book down whenever my current master needs darkness."

"You say you enjoy your work." The statement is really a question, and Charles sees that as well as Erik expects him to.

"I do," Charles says. "I won't deny that I've met bad people this way, but Lady Frost doesn't tolerate any abuse of her slaves."

"Good," Erik growls, arms tightening around Charles, who chuckles fondly.

"Would you like me to show you?"

"...Yes," Erik murmurs, and Charles shares images with him. A tall woman in a long green dress who had covered him in kisses and cossetted him like a child, a slight, effeminate man who had asked very politely if he could be rough with Charles and had played by the rules set out for him. Erik can't deny a stir of interest to find that Charles doesn't always mind being slapped, and feels a warm glow of amusement in response. Other pictures come next, slow and soothing and fading off toward sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Erik has had many wretched awakenings in his life. The scream of a mother's new grief for a sick baby that had finally succumbed, pelting rain on his face, a boot to the ribs. None of these will ever really leave him, but this morning they're further away than they've ever been. Erik is warm and full and wrapped in comfort, with Charles cuddled up into his chest, legs tangled together up to the thigh. Now that Erik is capable of believing that Charles truly enjoys his work, he can appreciate how soft his skin is without hating himself. He slides one hand up from Charles's waist to his shoulder, feeling the whole smooth expanse of his back. Charles makes a happy little sound somewhere between mewling, purring, and moaning, and presses closer. Erik shudders as Charles starts to rock his hips, grinding in slow, short strokes against Erik's thigh.

The sound of Hank rattling around beyond the canopy makes Erik pull back, even as Charles's low, disappointed whimper makes his cock twitch. "Awake, sir?" Hank calls.

"Yes."

"Stay in bed, sir, a cold wind came in last night and I can see my breath in here."

Erik makes an involuntary noise of disgust, and Hank chuckles. "Is Charles still asleep?"

As he asks, Charles's eyes start to blink open. "He's waking up."

"Full cold-weather breakfast, please," Charles calls, still sounding half-asleep.

Hank laughs. "Your excellency?"

"I'll try it, whatever it is. I defer to you people on the subject of miserable fucking cold."

Hank laughs, and assures them that he'll back soon. Erik calls his thanks, and then glances down to see Charles smiling up at him. "I like you with your hair all rumpled."

Erik chuckles, twirling one of Charles's curls around his finger. "You're not so bad, yourself.' Charles coos, and nuzzles his face in against the hollow of Erik's throat, thighs squeezing Erik's as his arms wrap around his neck. All that silky warmth against him makes Erik moan quietly, and he rolls Charles onto his back, pinning his wrists and gazing into his eyes. Charles shivers, thighs cradling Erik's hips, nothing between the heat of their cocks but Erik's nightshirt, slowly growing damp.

"Please, sir," Charles whimpers, mental and physical voice sounding together and making Erik shudder, "oh please, please touch me."

Erik groans, and kisses Charles, unable to help himself from being a little rough, so hungry for the taste of him. Charles melts under him, and cries out when Erik switches his grip to hold him down with one hand, the other going to grip Charles's cock, squeezing him in hard pulses and sliding the soft, loose skin over and over the head, fascinated by it.

_?_

Erik sends Charles an image of himself, foreskin ceremonially removed long before he ever set foot on Genosha. There's a flash of horrified sympathy, and then curiosity. Erik chuckles.

 _Don't worry, I don't remember the pain at all._ he sends, and strokes Charles with a delicate twist that makes him groan and thrust up into Erik's grip, telepathically begging for more. Erik growls and gives it to him.

Watching Charles come and feeling the blurry edges of it against his mind is so beautiful that Erik _almost_ doesn't care that he doesn't have time to finish himself off before Hank comes back with breakfast. Charles winces almost as much to see Erik wiping his hand on his nightshirt as he does to see him grip his own balls tightly enough to make his cock go down.

 _Sir, I could have taken care of that for you._ Charles's mental voice is reproachful, and he's actually pouting. It's much cuter than it should be.

 _Later,_ Erik sends, kissing Charles's forehead. _Robes, please?_

 _Of course._ Charles slips out of bed and greets Hank, thanking him for the lovely breakfast and returns wearing a dressing gown of his own and carrying another for Erik. Erik gives him a soft kiss on the mouth and lets him go when he insists on taking care of his chores, before putting on the robe and emerging from the bed's curtains to give Hank his regards and to investigate the tray. And stops, dumbfounded, because today Hank is a beast. He stands on two legs, but has a feline face and a coat of thick, blue fur over his entire body. He's still wearing his spectacles, and the yellow eyes behind them look nervous.

Erik smiles at him. "What a lovely gift!" He steps a little closer as Hank relaxes, and extends a hand. "May I?"

Hank chuckles, flashing bright white fangs. "You may, sir." He offers his forearm, and Erik strokes the fur, fascinated. It's thick and heavy and soft, with a rich, silky quality.

"Beautiful. And I love the color!" Looking up he sees that the windows are thickly edged with white frost, and realizes that without the muffling curtains he can hear the wind howling around the outside of the building.

"What about the gardens?" he asks Hank, suddenly struck with worry for them.

"Magically protected, sir," Hank assures him, patting Erik's hand and taking his arm back. "The weather here is very unpredictable." Once he's sure they don't need anything else, he vanishes into the corridor again, and Charles emerges from the bath chamber with shaving supplies, smiling.

"Interested in visible mutations?"

"Always. A good friend of mine is bright red and has a tail." Erik sits down at the table, curiously lifting the cover of one of the two main dishes, blinking in surprise to see an elaborate casserole, with cured pork, beans, potatoes, mushrooms, and several other things. Cheese seems to be involved.

"We each get one," Charles explains. "The other dishes have relishes, as well as fresh fruit and dried."

"I see," Erik says, and pokes at his portion for a moment before taking a cautious bite. It's delicious, heavy and creamy and meaty and rich, warm and fattening and good against the cold.


	11. Chapter 11

Erik really has stopped worrying about Charles's ability to consent. He doesn't start again until after lunch with Frost. They're through the lesser dyes and into the different grades of palm fiber, and Erik is very glad to take a break. Palm fiber bores and depresses him, itchy and prickly and humdrum, good for rope and not much else. The finer grades can be made into smooth fabrics, and Erik has to assume that Frost must have a cheaper way to do it than anything on the island. He at least settles it so that finished textiles made of Genoshan fibers will have no import duties, since the stuff is really just coming home. That should keep the price down and maybe cover some of the naked children he sees every day.

"It's touching," Frost says, taking a delicate spoonful of the mealy mashed thing that has been brought for the first course.

"What is?" Erik asks, sampling his own dish and finding it good simply because of the amount of butter involved.

"How often you think of the poor. I'm not trying to read you," she adds, "but there's only so much that I can help. I'm sure you can't help but know that my waist chain is platinum."

"True," Erik admits. "It's remarkably pure."

Frost laughs. "It had better be. It's been in the family for generations. Along with a tradition of relieving the poor. I'm pleased to find Genosha under the stewardship of decent people."

Erik can feel himself blushing, and tries not to grimace. "Thank you."

They get through their mash and onto a heavy beef casserole that sort of resembles breakfast, when Moira comes in, moving quickly and looking worried. "My lady," she says, and then freezes, eyes going blank for a moment as Frost plucks the reason for her coming out of her mind.

"I see." She turns to Erik and tells him that there has been a prison break, and that she must go deal with it. "There's no need to worry," she adds, sounding like a housewife faced with pigs in the garden. Erik politely asks to accompany her anyway, very curious to see just who ends up in Westchester's prisons. Her willingness to have him along suggests that she has nothing to hide. Or that this is all for show, but Erik barely allows the thought to occur to him with the telepath he's thinking it about this close by. She doesn't seem to have noticed, anyway, busy telepathically summoning and alerting her garrison, as well as searching for the prisoners. Erik rides out with her. The prison is close by, due to a tradition of the Ladies Frost defending their people from enemies within and without Westchester.

"Really, I could take care of this from the palace, but people like for me to make an appearance," Frost says, as their horses climb a gentle rise that brings them within sight of the prison. There are three prisoners dodging Frost's garrison, but there don't seem to have been any casualties yet. The leader has bright green hair and seems very intent on creating casualties. As they watch he leaps onto a female soldier's horse and starts to choke her. Frost holds up an imperious hand, and Erik freezes in the middle of shifting his weight to spur this borrowed beast into a charge. In the same instant the green-haired man falls off the horse, howling and clutching at his head. The other two drop like abandoned dolls, and as the soldiers bind them, Erik can move again.

 _I'm sorry,_ Frost says, _but there was no need for you to get involved._

 _...Clearly._ Erik has never met a telepath who can overtake his own strong will so easily, and it's hard work shielding his sudden sick terror. Maybe Frost really is powerful enough to compel her entire palace staff. Maybe Charles is really just a puppet, trapped behind those big blue eyes as his pretty mouth repeats Frost's words.

Erik barely remembers the ride back to the palace, his skin crawling as his mind reels in horror. How could he have been such a fool? Of course! Frost's power level explains everything, and by the time Erik is walking back to his room, he has most of an escape plan formulated. He'll have to come back with reinforcements, but Genosha can't afford another war, and...

 _Erik!_ Charles sends alarm and concern along with his name, and Erik feels like crying. _Oh, Erik, I'm not a puppet. You're leaking all over your shielding._

"Charles, if I could be sure of anything right now..." he stops, feeling an odd ripple and then something like numbness in his mind.

"It's hard being a telepath," Charles says, speaking with his mouth alone, not even that faint hint of a mental echo that's just part of talking to someone like him. The effect is actually eerie, like he isn't really here. "As soon as one realizes our capability to do harm, it can be difficult to think of anything else."

"Charles, I don't... I like you. I want to trust you. I want to believe that you're safe and happy here and that somehow everything is all right, but..." He tentatively sends him the feeling of being overtaken by Frost, and how frightening it is for someone who has thwarted all attempts to control him.

 _Oh, Erik._ Charles's full presence is back, and a wave of warmth and apology and frustration that's not Erik's fault washes over his mind, making him tremble. Charles holds out his arms to Erik. _Come to me, love, and I'll see if I can explain things._

Erik sits on the bed next to Charles, and lets him tip him sideways until his head and shoulders are resting in Charles's lap, warm and close and strangely safe.


	12. Chapter 12

"I'm not sure what to say to make you really understand," Charles says, after just holding Erik for a long time. "I've thought about a lot of ways to get you to let me touch you, but not many to soothe you when you're frightened. Not much frightens you, after all." Erik makes a faint noise of amusement, and Charles runs his fingers through his hair. "You know, maybe I do have an idea. What about a field trip?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean leaving the palace grounds. Not even Lady Frost can control an entire kingdom."

"...You have a point." Erik sits up. "I'll have to make sure we have an actual recess, first."

"Hank is coming down the corridor right now to tell you that you do, but I'll wait."

Sure enough, Hank is there a moment later with Lady Frost's apologies and her assurance that her guest will have until tomorrow morning to recover from the afternoon's unpleasantness. He also gives him a short history of Trevor Fitzroy, apparently a rich brat gone very wrong. Erik can't help but take it with a grain of salt, even as Charles telepathically assures him that it's quite true. Either way, at least tonight Erik will be able to ascertain a few things for himself, and he's impatient for the early winter sunset. Charles hums to himself as he picks through Erik's wardrobe.

"You're too well-dressed to really be the average Westchester working man, but I think I can make a creditable merchant of you."

"That will do. I'm more worried about being obviously foreign."

"You are rather tanned, but merchants travel. For all anyone knows, you're just back from an extended sojourn in Wakanda." He sets a pair of palm-fiber shoes aside. "Thank god you've got a decent pair of boots. These would be the real giveaway."

"And my feet would freeze off."

"Pfah, the wind is already changing, and there was no ring around the moon. It'll be a mild night."

"Remind me never to set foot in this miserable country again."

"Ah, but I'd miss you," Charles says, sincere and teasing at once. "Come and visit us in summer, you'll like it better."

Erik concedes that he might, and after their secluded dinner he and Charles dress and sneak out to the stables. Old habits come back to Erik, and he hardly needs any telepathic help from Charles at all, every sense alive and combat-honed reflexes and instincts seeing use for the first time in the last three years and more of peace. Charles is like a shadow beside him, and soon they're leaving the place grounds, leading their horses until they're on the public road.

"Glad to be out?" Charles asks, eyes gleaming in the starlight.

"Maybe a little," Erik admits, gazing up at the constellations. He may not know any of them, but the feeling is familiar. Himself, a trusted friend, silence, and darkness lit by blazing stars. He guides his horse a little closer to Charles without thinking about it, part of a protective formation that had worked well on the dried mudflats and in the streets of the capital city. Charles smiles at him, and sort of telepathically takes Erik's hand, a small and comforting touch. "Where to?"

"I don't know, Charles. Please yourself."

"In that case, we're going to the Red Rose for some of the best spirits in Westchester, then to one of the theatres, and then to the night market if you have the energy, because I need perfume samples."

"For Hank?"

"And for Raven. He'll be able to help me choose one to give her for Solstice."

"Fires, games, and gifts on the darkest day of the year, right?"

"Right."

"Before Genosha we had something like that. A festival of lights."

"What do Genoshans celebrate?"

"All the usual things like harvests and weddings and births, but as far as seasonal things, just the coming of the rains."

"Ugh, we have whole rituals to keep rain away."

"By the end of the dry season we're glad to get it. Sometimes it goes on too long, but there are years it doesn't come at all, and those are far worse." He sends Charles an image of Genosha burning under brassy and unseasonal sun, everything dry and frail with the heat, the earth hard as stone.

"Ugh, I think that's actually worse than the crops being rained down and rotting before anyone can get them in."

"When I was a very small child it was early frosts we worried about." They've come far enough now to be leaving the secluded neighborhood of the palace and to come into the village, and there are a few other riders and wagons, who take no particular notice of them. After months of being Ambassador Lensherr, this real indifference is paradise. Now that he can see the common people up close and unannounced, he's pleased to see that they look as well-dressed and well-fed as ever. They make their way between little stone houses that make him remember his mother and swallow hard, and the day businesses that are still open because of the increased foot traffic a night market always brings. People are gossiping about Fitzroy's near-escape, and buying solstice gifts, groceries, and prepared food, as well. A portion of the crowd are wearing copper, silver, and iron collars, varying with the quality of their clothes, but otherwise they're indistinguishable. He can feel Charles smiling.

_You see?_

_I do._ All around him tableaux are shifting. A woman handing spending money to three teenage daughters is actually dealing with two of her own and one belonging to her slave, who stands beside her with a little wheeled cart of shopping, looking like a helpful friend. A man in an iron collar is carrying his master's legless daughter, rather than this own, and the man helping a laughing girl retrieve spilled parcels is her master.

 _It's not that no one is ever cruel to us,_ Charles says, _But for good or ill, we're part of the family._


	13. Chapter 13

After weeks of private rooms, it's nice to just get a table at an inn like a normal person. A pretty girl in a copper collar comes up to them in a rustle of bright red skirts, greeting them politely. Charles returns her sunny smile, and tells her that his master would like a half bottle of the house's finest spirits, with trimmings and two chilled glasses. She looks to Erik, seems satisfied when he just nods, and promises to be back in just a minute.

"Trimmings?" Erik asks once she's gone.

"It's what we call a little plate of snacks to keep the liquor from going straight to your head. I know you're not very hungry and neither am I, but I love the Red Rose's assortment."

Erik may not be hungry, but he is curious. The girl is back soon, bearing a tray that contains everything Charles ordered. The half bottle is a small, square decanter, made of the colorless glass that can't be produced on Genosha yet. There's a full-blown rose figured on each side, and a bud on each of the small glasses, which are white with frost. The plate of trimmings is similar, and Charles walks him through the contents after the girl has left. There are small chunks of smoked rabbit, thin biscuits, pickled fish eggs, and tiny slices of a very sweet onion. The spirits are sweet as well, but sharper than the winter wind, with a powerful aftertaste that makes Erik think of evergreens and snow. The drink is also very strong, and Erik is glad for the trimmings.

When the plate is nearly empty and they're each sipping their second cup, a little boy comes in, carrying a covered basket in one hand and a small cash box in the other. He's wearing a copper collar, and comes right up when Charles calls to him. Up close he can't be more than seven, chubby-cheeked and clear-eyed.

"Theatre paper?" he asks Charles, and Charles smiles.

"Yes. Two, please."

The boy reaches into the basket and pulls out two little scrolls, neatly tied with blue ribbons. Charles gives him two small coins, one of which is apparently a tip, because he scampers up to the counter and buys a little piece of honey cake with the second one rather than putting it into the cash box.

Erik unfurls his scroll and finds five theatres listed, each with the week's plays laid out below it in neat columns with times and ticket prices. He has read a bit about Westchester's dramatic traditions, which are nothing like the intricately stylized ones of Genosha, or the austere and minimalist ones of his own people. He's not really sure what he would prefer to see, but reads the entire scroll. There are revenge tragedies and comedies about young lovers and sweeping family sagas and farces. Tragedies about young lovers, too, and Erik knows he doesn't want to see any of that maudlin shit. He takes another sip of spirits and holds back a sigh as warmth spreads outward from his belly. It really does have a clean and mellowing effect, and he can see why Charles likes it and why the Red Rose is known for it, as well.

Charles smiles at him. "Find anything appealing?"

"Only in negative," Erik says, smiling back. "I can't stand young lovers."

"Neither can I, even if 'Pyramis and the Thistle Girl' makes me cry as reliably as clockwork."

"...Would you be too bored if I dragged you to this enactment of the solstice myth?"

"Which company?"

"The Scarlet Dancers."

Charles chuckles. "They'll do it the old, bawdy way, you know."

"That's just an inducement, Charles."

The theatre is a smaller, older, and entirely less fashionable place. Erik is glad, having been dragged into a glittering near-palace where no one shut up through the entire play, which was dull and gory and stupid, anyway. Erik has seen too much real blood to appreciate affected young ladies screaming their heads off over a lot of tinted syrup, or the exaggerated and ridiculous contortions of a very overrated actor. Here there are no boxes, just stacked seating around a circular, sunken stage. The place is lit by red lanterns, and it's very warm. A girl in diaphanous red and a silver collar with gold inlay takes their cloaks, and another leads them to a pair of well-situated seats. Charles explains all about lines of sight and acoustics and the various ways dances are done to take full advantage of the round stage. He's beautiful, eyes bright with scholarly interest. Erik wants to kiss him, but they're in public and the lights are dimming.

A woman in the same thin red gowns as the girls who greeted them struts out to the center of the stage to a slow drumbeat. She stops in the center, and lets out a long, loud, and nearly perfect imitation of a wolf's howl. It makes Erik jump, and he can see Charles holding back a laugh. The woman declaims a beautiful invocation of the sacred She-Wolf, foremost of this region's traditional gods. Westchester used to have a great pantheon, but these days only one god is worshiped across the whole country.

Over the next hour and more, lithe and ferocious dancers tell the story of how the She-Wolf seduced and killed her way from the eternally dark ancient north down to where the current sky god's father was burning a ring around the earth, giving the people endless and tormented days. She killed him and took the sun. In the version Erik has read, her journey down was much shorter and more polite, and the sun burned her as she carried it until the pain made her let go, letting the sun roll back down to the southlands and she had to go get it again. In this one the sun is a living being, and seduces the She-Wolf. She likes the southlands better, and runs away after a spat with her lover. But wolves mate for life, and the She-Wolf follows her and coaxes her back. Every year they repeat this performance, and the darkest part of winter is not the She-Wolf nursing her wounds, but the She-Wolf sulking over the sun's inconstancy.


	14. Chapter 14

Erik is glad not to be any younger than he is. As it is, he only has about thirty-five percent of an erection to hide when the lights come up. These women are _shameless_ , and he thoroughly approves. He says as much to Charles on their way out, and Charles laughs, eyes sparkling.

"I'm glad you feel that way, sir. I've never approved of cleaning these things up."

"The Genoshans don't really believe in it, either. Good lord, the Obwaarii stories about their flower god would make your hair curl. Well, more," he adds, resisting a powerful urge to touch it.

"A flower god? Interesting. Around here they're generally female."

"The Obwaarii have a long tradition of male flashiness. They believe that the creator made women beautiful, and that men have to work at it. There's a lot of bright colors and showing off, so it makes sense." He chuckles. "And some of the old women will tell you that it's also because men don't last, just like the flowers."

Charles laughs. "Well, some of us are better at that than others. I had to certify for bed service."

Erik has a sudden and vivid vision of this process, and blushes when Charles favors him with a slow, wide grin. "I'll tell you all about it later," he says, and takes Erik's hand, gently towing him back toward the night market. There are similar places in Genosha, but of course there are vast differences. There are bigger stalls here, to allow people to warm up, where in Genosha the better stalls just have awnings to keep the rain off of the customer's back. There are still a few little ones where one just orders at a window and walks away, but they tend to be limited to hot drinks, where whole meals can be bought in Genosha. Given the temperature, it all makes perfect sense. People stay warm by walking, sipping whatever it is out of little wooden boxes. It would be hot chocolate on those Genoshan nights when the cold wind comes in from the sea, but the stuff is even rarer in Westchester than coffee. It starts to snow, and Erik shivers, pulling his grey furs tighter. 

"Come along, sir, you need some honey milk," Charles says, and leads him to one of the tiniest stalls, where an old woman that fits it perfectly is standing at the window. There's a narrow panel of glass on the left edge to let her see approaching customers, and a heavy curtain to keep the warmth in. She pulls it aside as they approach, and Erik is surprised to see that she has no collar. _She owns four slaves,_ Charles tells Erik, _but she often runs the stand herself. She's very particular about her product._ "Two small boxes, please," he says to the proprietress, and she nods, stepping down from the block that brings her up to window height and going to a cauldron that sits over a very low flame. A boy in a silver collar sits beside it, lazily stirring the milk, not pausing as the woman takes a small ladle and carefully fills two boxes. He yawns, and the flame goes out for a moment before he sits up straighter and it blinks back into existence. The woman shakes her head, looking amused and gently chiding him that he's supposed to study while he works, not nap, before coming back and setting the boxes on the windowsill. "Now, now, ma'am," Charles says, counting out more small coins, "history makes me fall asleep, too."

She laughs. "Fair enough. The poor child is on the Bright Dynasty, and you know that's nothing but family trees and tariffs."

Charles winces sympathetically, and she counts out his change and they walk away with their steaming boxes. The wood is light and still green, not weathered at all. The top is jammed in along grooves, a short enough panel to leave an a narrow opening to drink from. Erik takes a cautious sip, finding that it is indeed literal milk with honey, very hot and with a sharp, almost spicy taste that's hard to identify. He asks Charles about it, and finds that it's the flavor of the wood itself, the more resinous side turned inward to make the box less sticky and to help flavor the milk.

"Part of why hers is so good is that she uses the best wood," Charles adds, and tells Erik all about the different grades of white tree and which are the best for honey milk as they walk toward a little section of stalls dedicated to what Erik thinks of as 'things for ladies' despite years of exposure to Genoshan men, all of whom wear at least a little facepaint or jewelry. There is facepaint here, of all different shimmering shades, as well as those meant to blend into the skin rather than stand out from it, and lovely Westchester fabrics and the kind of inexpensive and pretty jewelry that farmboys buy for their sweethearts. Charles leads him past all of it to a particular perfumer's stall, dismissing one as overpriced and another as having poor selection.

At last they stop, and Charles puts both empty boxes in his pockets so they have their hands free to accept a series of tiny bottles, comparing scents and occasionally stopping to sniff a sharp herbal extract that works like a palate cleanser. Charles is endearingly particular, and Erik is willing to let him take his time, pleased to see how much finding the right gift for his sister means to him. Some of the scents are familiar, but many aren't, and Erik savors them. There are so many floral ones, where flowers on Genosha tend to be more showy than aromatic. Charles takes Erik's opinions into account as he assembles a collection of five little bottles, and waits for them to be properly padded and wrapped for their journey back into Frost's palace.


	15. Chapter 15

Sneaking back into the palace is an adventure, but with a few uses of Charles's powers, they reach Erik's quarters without being spotted. Even with the fright Frost gave him today, Erik can see how gentle Charles is with the guards. He's still terrified, but now he's terrified because he feels like he _can_ trust Charles. His heart is pounding as the door shuts behind him, and Charles smiles sadly. He takes Erik's furs, lights the main lamps, and pokes up the fire, adding more wood. Erik shivers a little in the relative coolness, and wanders over to the shelves by the bed to nibble at dried fruit and nuts simply because they are there and he can. He's slightly ashamed of how much it soothes him, and jumps a little in surprise as Charles's arms wrap around his waist from behind.

_Erik, darling. There's nothing to be ashamed or afraid of._

He sighs, shivering slightly and leaning back against Charles. He feels wrung out and exhausted, and lets Charles gently shepherd him into bed and remove his clothes. He's too tired to do anything in return but pull Charles into his arms and go to sleep, and dimly feels bad about that for his last few moments awake before drifting off on a wave of understanding, forgiveness, and amusement from Charles.

Erik wakes up to projected emotion, too. This is also warm, but closer to hot, arousal winding into Erik's mind and making him shudder. Charles is feeling cozy and lazy, stroking himself slowly both to make it last, and in deference to his sleeping master. His inward focus allows Erik to surprise him, shifting closer and putting an arm around his waist.

_?_

_God, yes,_ Charles answers, and shudders all over as Erik wraps a hand around his cock. It's just as sweet to touch as it was last time, nice and thick, with that soft, sliding skin. Charles is a little wet, and only gets more so as Erik works him with the slow, firm strokes that he likes for himself. He has a feeling it will drive Charles mad, and when he whines beseechingly, that warm, telepathic glow now tinted with impatience.

 _I'll go a little faster if you tell me about getting certified,_ Erik offers, biting his neck, and Charles laughs and whines at the same time. He shows Erik an image of himself all in white and wearing a new collar, sitting on a bench in a corridor, and Erik strokes him faster, as the image gives way to others. He had been trained very gently, beginning with massages to increase his tolerance for touch, and then actual lessons in technique. He had been complimented on the use of his mouth from the beginning, but at first his telepathy had been a bit of liability, his partner's pleasure swamping him and making him come too soon for women. Erik chuckles, and Charles shares his amusement, even as the images start to wobble and shift to the abstract colors of a telepath near climax. Erik has seen them before, and is very pleased with himself to see how bright he can make Charles's own idiosyncratic spectrum. At last his mind's eye is nearly blinded, and Charles bucks and wails, thrusting into Erik's grip over and over. He shudders and gathers Charles close once he stills, mumbling wordlike sounds of affection and praise as he presses kisses to the corner of his closed eye and the edge of his panting mouth, the point of his chin and the side of his neck.

At last Charles giggles, and looks up at Erik. "Your turn, sir." And Erik looks at the clock and finds that yes, they do have some extra time. _I will never make you late to meet my mistress,_ Charles tells him, rolling onto Erik and straddling his waist, grinning down at him. _There are entirely too many things I want to do,_ he sends, the whole contact feeling sulky and making Erik laugh.

"Why not pick a favorite and begin?" he murmurs, and Charles gently tweaks his nose.

"Fine. I will." He kisses Erik and then works his way down, sucking and biting along the side of Erik's throat and and then across his chest and down his belly, avoiding his aching cock to nuzzle at his hip bone and looking up with a devilish smile. Erik is panting already, his heart pounding. He had had some idea of just how soft Charles's mouth is, but now he can't think of anything else as Charles licks his lips and then presses a tiny kiss to the tip of Erik's cock, actually winking at him as he does, the vicious little bastard. After a tiny eternity of warm breath and the promise of contact, Charles finally takes Erik into his mouth and swallows him down. He's so slow that it's agony, lips and tongue sliding all the way to the base of Erik's cock, taking the full length into his throat and actually giving him a kiss where his lips touch, tender and wicked and ridiculous. He nuzzles Erik's belly as if he doesn't need to breathe at all, swallowing and swallowing.

Erik fights to keep still, breaking a light sweat as he stares down at Charles and knots his hands into the sheet to keep from grabbing him by the hair. He grits his teeth and trembles all over until Charles's mind reaches for his,warm and insinuating, seeing Erik's desires and granting his permission. Permission and pleasure, even. He likes having his throat fucked, and soon Erik is thrusting up over and over and holding Charles down by the hair, rough and greedy. He would be appalled with himself if Charles wasn't projecting pleasure and actual joy so hard. He's delighted with Erik's lack of restraint, moaning over and over because he knows exactly what it does to him. Erik has had far too much practice in ignoring his body, but now he can't be anywhere else, making a breathless sobbing sound as he comes so hard it makes his ears ring.


	16. Chapter 16

Frost will almost certainly know, but Erik does his best not to be obvious. He arrives on time and haggles as viciously as ever, despite his elation and his utter boredom with palm fiber at the best of times. Frost graciously pretends to notice nothing different about him, and during the midday break Charles limits himself to kisses and cuddling, with rather less grace. It's nice to be desired and a lot more than nice to be held, but Erik has come here to work. He needs to spend at least some of his downtime making administrative notes and writing letters and reading reports on currency fluctuations.

Over dinner that night Frost can restrain herself no longer and tells Erik that she's very glad he has become more comfortable here. He can feel himself blushing and curses inwardly.

"Thank you," is all he says, and pretends not to notice when Frost brings their postprandial session to an early close. She claims to be particularly tired, but Erik has his doubts. He can't actually bring himself to argue, though. It's all he can do to keep his eagerness to get back to Charles from spilling over his mental shields. Hank grins from ear to ear on the way back to Erik's quarters, but doesn't say a word. He just winks when Erik sends him away, and Erik can feel himself blushing like he hasn't since his adolescence as Charles comes prowling in, favoring him with a slow smile that's barely too sweet to be a leer.

"Now can I bathe you properly, sir?"

"Yes," Erik mutters, and it sounds like defeat. Charles is very gentle with him, though, and doesn't insist on helping him undress. He just waits for Erik, standing in the sunken tub like the son of a river goddess. Erik takes a deep breath and steps down to join him. They kneel in the hot water and at first Charles just kneads the tension out of Erik's neck and then works lower, encouraging him to lean back into his arms as the hot water laps away at his resolve. He feels decadent and useless and unable to mind it as much as he should. Charles chuckles, warm and amused against his mind. _Please, Erik. Let yourself enjoy something for once._ There really isn't much else he can do, so he lets Charles wash everything from his hair to his toes. He's professional and almost motherly about it for the first pass, but once he has Erik loose and relaxed in his arms, he starts kissing the side of his neck and nibbling with sharp little teeth that Erik already knows will haunt his dreams all through the Genoshan night, savoring every part of Erik he touches and cleaning him so thoroughly that one fingertip pushes into Erik, making him whimper quietly.

 _I'll dream of you too,_ Charles whispers into his mind, soapy hands sliding over Erik's chest and finding everywhere he's sensitive and vulnerable. Each tiny discovery is terrifying, but Erik just lets it sweep over him, the paradoxical lassitude of a prey bird going still except for its humming heart. Charles shivers. _I'll only consume you in ways you want me to, little bird._

The name strikes Erik to the heart, because it's something his mother called him in the old language, and the tenderness that swells up in Charles is like the evening tide in the dry season and Erik is drowning and it's a good thing Charles is here to keep that from happening in physical reality. He holds Erik's head above water and soothes him, mind-to-mind and in all the usual ways, too. Once Erik can stand, Charles helps him up and out and wraps him in a towel and then a heavy robe. Once he has started the bath draining and has gotten himself covered as well, he helps Erik through the relative chill to the bed. Mercifully there are warmers between the sheets, and they cuddle together like children until they're fully dry. With their towels and robes hung up beside the bed and skin sliding against skin, that innocent pause is over. Charles twines himself around Erik and kisses him until he feels drunk with it, and then rolls him onto his belly. 

Erik isn't sure what he's planning, and at this point he doesn't care. He just stretches and writhes and wallows in the sleek softness of the sheet as Charles kisses his way down his spine. When he parts Erik's cheeks and actually nuzzles into him, Erik tries to tense, and then yelps at the first wet touch of Charles's tongue. He can't help broadcasting his genuine and maidenly shock, and Charles actually giggles against him, the little bastard. Erik sucks in a ragged breath to say something sharp, and then lets it out in a low moan as Charles hums softly, working into him. Erik struggles to keep quiet and to make his thighs stop trembling, his spine curling up of its own volition to shove his hips back into Charles's mouth.

 _These walls are thick, Erik,_ Charles purrs, and Erik groans, the tightness in his chest loosening into sound. He sobs and moans, clutching at the pillow, at the sheets and at his own hair, because Charles feels so fucking good and he won't stop and Erik cannot bear this much pleasure. Charles tells him that he can and he will, and Charles is right. It just keeps going inward, winding tighter and tighter and he keeps not coming. It isn't Charles holding him back, either. At least not telepathically. If he would just touch Erik's cock, but he won't and when he raises his head Erik is afraid he's going to cry. _Don't do that, darling. I'll take care of you._


	17. Chapter 17

Erik doesn't have much experience with opening up this way, but Charles is patient with him, murmuring reassurance into his mind as he eases slick fingers into his body. Charles tells him that he's beautiful, that his trust is beautiful and that Charles will do everything he can to be worthy of it. Erik just keens quietly and melts, hugging the pillow and letting Charles stretch him wider. It's not that Erik has never done this before, but the last time was in a ditch on a dark and rainy night. His partner in that endeavor had been a Nziola called Green for his green eyes, which are far rarer among native Genoshans in general and in the Nziola in particular than his real name, the male form of 'Born On A Market-Day.' They had at least had shea butter on hand, so it had barely hurt any more than this. It's always painful to remember friends who didn't make it through the war, but this particular pang is subsumed in the moment. Charles's mind strokes over his, soothing him further as he gently twists his hand, making Erik shudder and groan, burying his face in his pillow, which doesn't do much to muffle the noise.

"Ready?" Charles breathes, and Erik nods, and then realizes the gesture is pretty meaningless in his current position.

 _Yes,_ he sends, struggling not to shout. _Please._ And then Charles is sinking into him and Erik can do nothing but feel. He groans and fumbles to press his hands flat to the headboard, pushing back and making helpless sobbing sounds as Charles grinds into him, getting as deep as possible and holding there for a long moment before he starts to move. Erik takes a deep, silent breath, his eyes wide, and then buries his face in the pillow to muffle a loud and formless cry. Charles groans softly, biting Erik's shoulder and filling his mind with physical feedback as he thrusts faster and faster, driving Erik up onto his knees. He knows exactly where and how to move, and Erik shudders, cock twitching.

"Fuck, Charles..." Erik gasps, sounding hoarse and strange to his own ears, "touch me, touch me, touch me..." he trails off into desperate moaning as Charles does, reaching around and gripping him in hard pulses that match his relentless pace inside him. It feels like an eternity, but Erik can only bear a few seconds of this before he comes, and Charles groans, following him. Erik can actually feel the sticky-slick warmth of him deep inside, and moans, embarrassed because Charles must know how much he loves it and how whorish that makes him feel. In a good way, though, which must also be clear because Charles chuckles and bites his neck.

_Good._

They stay like this for a long time, Charles a warm, sticky, and heavy blanket on Erik. In him, too, until Erik's body decides otherwise and pushes him out. Erik is half asleep by the time Charles gets up, and can only make a faint complaining noise that makes Charles laugh. He's back a moment later with towels and warm water, carefully bathing Erik and then himself. He vanishes again, but is back in time to hold Erik close as he drifts into true sleep.

He dreams peacefully at first, and then starts to slide into nightmare only for a small dog to lead him somewhere else. He barely remembers the transition when he wakes up, but it's there and he's grateful. Charles is still asleep, looking very young and very adorable. Erik stretches and a slight ache deep inside makes him smile.

"Sir?" Hank calls from outside the curtains.

"Yes?"

"It's storming out, sir, you should probably stay in bed for a while. Cold weather breakfast?"

"Yes," Erik says. "And another for Charles. He needs to keep his strength up."

Hank laughs, and Erik smirks to himself, wrapping around Charles and dozing off again. The next time he wakes up, it's to Charles's gentle prodding. The fire is roaring, but just looking at the sheer amount of frost on the thick windows makes him shiver, and he gets as close to the hearth as he can without burning himself. Charles smiles softly at him. "You look like an unhappy house cat, sir. Surely it's not that bad."

"Bah," Erik says, glancing out the window again. It's pitch black outside, something he's still not used to.

"It is morning," Charles assures him, "it just doesn't feel like it."

"God, I need to make sure my Solstice gifts for Lady Frost are all right. You've been distracting me."

"Then let me make it up by telling you if she already owns anything you've brought."

Almost everything Erik has brought is Genoshan, so that isn't really an issue, but he's glad to get Charles's opinion. Poor as they are these days, Genoshans (native and imported) are proud. Erik has a trunk dedicated to gifts for Lady Frost and her household, and can't help fussing a little until Hank has set it down safely, at just the right distance from the fire. Charles sighs happily, kneeling next to it on the rug. "I just love presents. It doesn't even matter who they're for."

Hank chuckles, moving to leave. "Stay," Erik says, and he turns back.

"Sir?"

"You know her. Do you have time to look at these?"

Hank does have time, and joins Charles. Erik crouches at the other side and uses his gift to undo the lock, which has no keyhole. The first thing they see is just the clean palm fiber put there as padding and dust protection. Erik sets it in the open lid of the trunk and begins a careful inventory. One strand each of black, white, brown, and pink pearls, the four main colors of Genosha's oyster beds; head-cloths worked by the best artisans of all three tribes, animal figurines worked in silver by his own people, a box of various chocolates, a smaller box holding dormant rainfish eggs, and what feels like a hundred other beauties and curiosities from the island.


	18. Chapter 18

Erik has checked up on the rules long before this, of course. The pearls are plain strands instead of dizzyingly complex Fharra necklaces because by Westchester custom a gift from a man to an unrelated woman of finished jewelry is essentially a marriage proposal at best, a crassly open proposition at worst. The headcloths are the proper colors and have the beaded fringe favored by ladies in Westchester, and there's a wolf among the animal figurines even though there are none on the island and the artisans had to work from pictures. Erik has seen enough devotional carvings in his time here to know that they didn't embarrass themselves, even if the head is a little bit more like a jackal's.

"So what are these?" Charles asks, gently tilting the box of rainfish eggs to hear them rattle. He's on his belly on the rug now, skin glowing in the firelight as he props himself up on his elbows.

"Fish eggs," Erik says, taking the box from him. "Don't shake them. They're tough, but I'd prefer to take no chances."

"Aren't fish eggs more moist than that?" Charles lightly kicks his feet, cupping his chin in his hands. Hank has gone back to work, leaving the two of them alone.

"Not rainfish eggs." Rainfish lay their eggs in the end of the rainy season, and all through the dry one they wait, little pebbles in the mudflats. Erik shows Charles a memory of watching them hatch after the first heavy rain. Just little grey squiggles at first, but after about five days they start to shimmer in every color, subtle, translucent, and mysterious. Fully grown they float in the dark water, gleaming under the moon at night like prisms in the sun.

 _How beautiful,_ Charles sends, and Erik smiles.

_A fitting addition to the garden, then. If they hatch out properly._

This is to be the last day of real negotiation. The Solstice celebrations will begin tomorrow night, and a week after that Erik is heading back to Genosha. He repacks the trunk with great care, and goes to the table for the last time this trip, determined to get a good rate on coarse palm fiber, sea salt, and powdered shells for use in mortar. These commodities bore him as much as the finer palm fibers, but he's determined to get everything he can for his precious little jewel of an island, glimmering in the sea. At about noon, he gets the feeling that Frost is going easy on him, and he's still irritated about it when he repairs to his quarters for lunch.

 _What's wrong, love?_ Charles purrs into his mind, and Erik blushes badly, his face flaming hot.

_I... I'm getting deals that are too good, and because men are inconstant fools, I'm annoyed by it._

_That is silly, sir._ The fire is roaring and Charles is completely naked on the rug in front of it, and Erik is not sure what to do with this information. It's already dark outside, and Charles smiles.

"It is. And even colder. Do you know how we keep warm in winter, sir?"

"I'm beginning to get an idea," Erik murmurs, and Charles laughs, reaching out to him.

"You are a clever man, sir. I'm not surprised." His expression is so adorably insolent that Erik has no choice but to go down on his knees and roll Charles onto his back, pinning him in place and looming over him. Charles is gratifyingly wide-eyed and flushed, and he moans when Erik kisses him. Erik sends him an image of the two of them intertwined, Erik buried as deep as he can get into Charles.

 _Please._ It's so strong it makes Erik shudder, and Charles reaches up, tugging at his clothes and getting him out of them with all the expertise of a Westchester bedslave. Erik pauses to look for whatever oil Charles used on him last night, but Charles drags him down again, murmuring that he's already slicked and stretched because he wants this so badly, was going to beg Erik to fuck him, whatever happened. Erik shudders and moans, pushing Charles's knees up and settling between them. He doesn't press in immediately, just ruts against Charles to feel and spread the warm slick on him.

"God, Charles," he breathes, "God, you're _filthy_." He knows Charles can feel just how much he approves of that, because of the way he moans and shudders, wrapping his legs around Erik's waist to draw him closer.

"Please, sir," Charles whimpers, "please..."

Erik grants his request, surging into him and pushing as deep as he can get, doing some whimpering of his own as Charles clamps down on him. There are memories here, too, of a dusky-skinned girl who had said they should get married when they grew up. He has always hoped she escaped entirely. Her people do travel, so there's some hope. With the smoothness of long practice he brings himself back to the moment, gazing down into Charles's eyes. "Good, beautiful boy?"

"So good," Charles gasps. " _Move._ "

Erik shudders, and starts a slow, deep rocking. He's a little ashamed of how fast he moved earlier, and rocks Charles gently until he's cursing him and slapping his shoulders, demanding faster and harder. Erik teases him a little longer, mostly because the sharp sting feels good. Once Charles realizes, he digs his nails into Erik's back, grinning up at him before Erik finally gives him what he wants, fucking him hard and fast and deep, making him keen and moan, clawing at Erik's back. Each scratch goes straight down his spine to his cock, and he moans when Charles shifts his grip, nails dragging over the skin beside Erik's tailbone. After a moment Charles lets go to grab Erik's ass, sinking his nails into the sensitive skin and using that brutal grip to pull Erik even deeper. He at least has the decency not to use his powers to hold on, letting Erik drive him over the edge and then use him for a desperate eternity after before sobbing and coming so hard it blinds him.


	19. Chapter 19

Once Erik's vision fades from grey back into colors and shapes, Charles uses his gift to order lunch, and helps Erik put himself back together again, wiping him off and helping him into a robe. He has seen the scars on Erik's back, of course, the remnants of ancient whippings, but he hasn't said or sent anything about them until now. He pauses, Erik's arms barely into the sleeves of the robe, leaving the neckline drooping to expose his old scars and whatever new marks Charles has left on him. There's a strange, silent moment, and then Charles leans in, covering Erik's back with kisses. They're soft and chaste, more comforting than arousing despite the sensitivity of the skin, and Charles is sending waves of some achingly tender emotion Erik can't quite identify.. He stops at the nape of Erik's neck and just breathes there for a moment before pulling the robe up over Erik's shoulders and handing him the ends of the belt. That done, he cleans the damp spot on the rug and neatly folds Erik's clothes, so everything is nice and seemly when Hank arrives with their food. A slightly glassy look in his eyes and a bruise on his neck make Erik smirk with the realization that Frost has probably indulged herself the same way. Hank sees Erik looking, and blushes badly, setting the tray down.

Charles laughs. "I'm glad you're having a good day, Hank."

"Happy Solstice to you, too," Hank says, grinning.

Charles devours his portion, and Erik pokes up the fire, feeling positively domestic. He glances up to see Charles smiling over at him, and smiles back.

He of course doesn't let his current mellowed frame of mind interfere with his last negotiations with Frost, but there isn't much left, and in the end they come to a good accord and Erik can see all the scholars, merchants, and advisers trying not to cheer. The best bargains make both sides feel that they've gotten the better deal, and Erik is glad to see it here, because he has gotten almost everything he wanted for his island.

There's a new tension now, though. Business entirely over, all the rest of Erik's duties here are social. It's important to be on good terms with all Westchester if they can do it, but Frost's kingdom is particularly powerful and populous, and has many connections further north, giving them an in with the fierce and isolated people up there. Erik shudders to think of any place colder and darker than this, and Frost orders them mulled wine after dinner. They sit by the fire like old friends, and Frost tells him all about the local herbs used to spice the wine. None of them are Westchester nettle, thankfully.

As the fire gets low and the wine does as well, they can hear the wind picking up outside, howling around all the corners and rattling the windows. "Lensherr, I've been meaning to ask," Frost says, "are you enjoying my bedslave now that you've made peace with him?"

Erik blushes. "I am, my lady. Thank you."

She smiles, and then decorously hides a yawn with one elegant hand. "You're very welcome, Lensherr." He rises when she does, and she bids him a fond goodnight. Hank comes to escort him back to his quarters, and Erik almost doesn't see Frost wink at him on their way out. He grins at Hank when they're alone in the corridor, and he blushes, looking as young as he is. Erik wonders if he'll be able to see Frost again after he gains his freedom, and when he and Charles are alone together, he asks.

"It will be a bit more difficult," Charles concedes, setting out towels as the bath fills, "but there is a precedent for it, and Lady Frost won't let a little gossip stop her from taking whatever lovers she wishes. Other nobles will complain, the bards will write soppy songs about it, and Hank's perfume will be all the more in demand." Erik chuckles, and eats a few of the little white nuts, noting for the umpteenth time that they clearly need to set up trade with the easterners as well. Charles smiles at him. "I can send them to you in Genosha by the pound sack while you're working that out, sir."

"Thank you," Erik says, more softly than he means to. With his time in Westchester nearing its end, he's starting to realize how much he really will miss Charles.

Charles doesn't say anything, but he's very gentle as he bathes Erik, stroking him off in the bath and letting him return the favor, both of them loose-limbed and sleepy-eyed as they stumble off to bed. "We should sleep in tomorrow, sir," Charles mumbles, nuzzling in under his chin. "The celebrations begin at sundown and go on all night."

"Mm. The festival of lights was always the same way."

Charles kisses the pulse at Erik's throat. "My favorite thing when I was a child was always the colored lanterns." He sends Erik a picture of white trees hung all over with square glass lanterns in red and green and purple and gold and blue, frost and snow diffusing the light into a soft glow. It's beautiful, and Erik responds with an image of dozens of white tallow candles glowing against the dark. Charles cuddles closer, and the wind howls louder, but where they are is still, dark, and warm, soothing and safe. Charles kisses the dip between Erik's collarbones, and shivers happily when Erik rubs the smooth, soft skin of his back.

"Sir?" he murmurs.

"Yes?"

_My sister will be visiting me. Would you like to be introduced?_

Erik feels himself blush in the dark, and holds Charles a little more tightly. _Yes._


	20. Chapter 20

The next day the entire palace sleeps late except for a bare-bones crew of slaves who get the fires lit and put on an enormous cauldron of the traditional low-effort stew. All over Westchester today, housewives and slaves and restaurant cooks are chopping rabbit meat and beef and lamb, as well as every type of winter vegetable. Charles tells Erik about the traditional ingredients in a sleepy murmur, and about how Hank will bring them their breakfast and then go back to bed.

Breakfast today is scantier than usual, a mere enormous platter of pancakes with four different choices of condiments. They eat by the light of a single candle on the bedside table, curtains still drawn. The pancakes are thick and fluffy, and there's a dark golden syrup made from the sap of the white trees that Erik hasn't had before. There's also the usual clear honey, red berry jelly, and a thin beef gravy for a savory option. When they're done, Charles sets the tray outside the curtains and comes back in, cuddling up to Erik and tangling their legs together. They lounge where they are and slowly drift back to sleep.

Erik doesn't wake up again until Charles shakes him. "Come on, sir. It's bad luck not to see the last sunlight of the old year."

Yawning, Erik lurches up and puts on a robe and then wraps a blanket over his shoulders so Charles can lead him to the window, where one of these fiery Westchester winter sunsets is just beginning to fade. Charles tucks himself in against Erik's chest, sharing the blanket as they stand and watch the night come on. When the last light fades, the stars are joined by lanterns all over the city. It's beautiful, and Charles slips out from under the blanket and hangs a lantern of their own in the window, lighting it with a long match. Each of the four side panels is a different color, one red, one green, one blue, and one yellow.

"I like not having to choose, when I'm only putting up one," Charles says, and cuddles close to Erik again. "We'll have to get dressed soon."

"Oh, the anguish," Erik murmurs, kissing the top of Charles's head and nuzzling his face into his hair. Charles giggles, kissing his throat.

"We'll get through it somehow, sir."

Erik has been wearing clothes that befit his status this entire time, but solstice is an occasion. Charles helps Erik into each complicated piece of his best Westchester-style outfit. It's a long process, and Charles is just fastening the last of what feels the five hundredth goddamned button before Erik remembers. "Isn't your sister coming?"

Charles sighs. "She'll be expected to say the solstice prayer at home, but she'll come here to stay the night." He straightens Erik's cravat and hands him his gloves. "There. You look very dashing, allowing for the silliness of court dress."

"The pointed shoes and the decorative noose are a bit much, yes."

Charles laughs. "What do you wear when the rains come?"

"Bright robes and cloaks and palm fiber hats to keep it out of our eyes. Lots of jewelry."

"Sounds simpler," Charles agrees, dressing himself and then coming to Erik to make sure his belt is at the right angle. "Hank is coming to fetch us. Do I look all right?"

"Beautiful," Erik says, and has the satisfaction of seeing him blush. Hank arrives a moment later, and Erik runs over everything he has ever heard or read about Westchester's solstice celebrations as Hank helps them bundle up in furs and leads them out into the palace's snowy courtyard. Every inmate of the place is gathering under the snowy trees all full of lights. As an honored guest, Erik goes to the left of Lady Frost, who is standing on a dias draped in white and silver. The head of each household leads the prayer. It's in a ritual language that Erik doesn't know, so he just stands there and holds the white candle Moira passes to him. It's a long prayer, and Erik bows his head with the others but doesn't quite close his eyes, studying the silent crowd, candles like stars in their hands. Alien as the language and the ceremony is, there's something homey about it. The lights and the reverence and love in the air make him remember his homeland, where it snowed and there were no rain festivals. Remembering is always melancholy, but now it's sweet, too.

After the prayer they drink a toast to the gods and the coming year with blood-dark wine, and then they watch a sacred dance based on the original myth but so stylized and symbolic that it's not immediately obvious. There are other dances after that one, and people who juggle fire. The music for all of this is nearly deafening, full of drums and bells and horns. The idea is that demons and evil spirits hate noise, and will be driven away from the new year if the solstice celebrations are loud enough. Erik hopes it won't give him a headache, and is glad the crowd is free to mingle and to talk now that the most spiritually significant portions of the performance are over.

"Sir," Charles says, appearing at his elbow as he's watching some truly impressive dancing, head tilted and another glass of wine in hand. Turning, he sees that there's a young but very poised girl with him. "May I introduce my sister?" She doesn't look much like her brother, with a more oval face and golden hair, but she's lovely in her own way.

"You honor me," Erik says, and he can tell that Raven is very pleased to have him bow over her hand like she's a real grown-up lady. To be fair, it's only about three years away. She favors him with a beautiful curtsey and then takes his arm and Charles's, demanding to be taken to wherever the little cakes of tree sugar are.


	21. Chapter 21

Tree sugar is made from the white trees, and tiny rounds of the grainy, soft brown syrup solids are eaten in pretty much every single household in Westchester. Erik nibbles and savors his, examining the tiny little wolf cunningly stamped onto the surface while Raven eats four of them and tells Charles all about the intrigues and travails of boarding school, and how much better it is than living at home. That done, she peppers him with questions about Genosha, and he answers them as other dancers take the stage. There's more fire-juggling, and an acrobatic competition that Erik has read comes from further north, altered to Westchester tastes. Meaning that at no point in the dance are knives involved. There are four bonfires around the central area, and people mill around them as they admire the skill of dancers, singers, and storytellers. Children run around underfoot and there are more different types of candy and rich, buttery food than Erik has ever seen in his life.

The moon rises and is beginning to fall by the time Frost takes the dais again and declares that the time has come for gifts. As hostess she'll be giving everyone something small, and then they'll all be free to give each other whatever they like until the time comes for the second prayer. It's a common practice to leave gifts in people's rooms for them to find upon their return, and Erik asks Charles to call Hank, to make sure the trunk of gifts for Frost is in her room. While they're making sure of that, Frost sends girls through the crowd to give each person a little bag of silvery fabric, and there's a general move indoors.

"Everyone warms up a bit and gives gifts and has mulled wine and soup for a while now," Charles says, cheeks rosy with the cold. "Shall I take your house gift to your room, sir?"

"Please," Erik says. "Bring the black box by the bed when you come back."

Charles bows and scurries off, leaving Erik to answer more questions about Genosha and to prevent Raven from drinking the full-strength wine for adults. "You're no fun, Ambassador Lensherr," she says, pouting over a cup that's cut with juice and extra honey.

"Sorry, Miss Xavier," he tells her, smiling. "I have a gift for you, if that helps."

"It does," she says, taking his arm again. They acquire soup as well, and find a small table to rest at until Charles comes to join them, box in hand, as well as two small pouches. He calls Hank to join them when Erik asks, and once they're assembled Erik gives Raven her gift, a smaller box containing beads, palm fiber, and directions for one of the simplest Fharra designs. She is fascinated by the Genoshan materials, and thanks Erik profusely, flushing at the admission that her parents hadn't sent her with anything to give in return. Erik of course tells her not to worry about it, and gives Hank a tiny vial of pale green oil.

"This is the oil of the herb the Nziola call Virgin's Hand, and you'll at least find it novel even if it doesn't mix well," Erik explains, unprepared for Hank's intense and genuine delight. He has more personal plans for Charles, but gives him a piece of high grade palm cloth in Obwaarii blue, so he won't feel left out. Charles brings out the perfume he bought for Raven, a little book on northern aromatics for Hank, and a little silver charm on a thin chain that goes around Erik's wrist.

"It's good luck," Charles explains, but Hank's face tells him that something more is going on. A moment later Moira comes to get him to help set up for the last ceremony, though, so Erik has no way to ask. By now everyone is starting to get tired, and are much more solemn as they gather in the courtyard again. Hank and other high-level slaves are fanning the bonfires, making them tall and hot, with a soft roar that fills the silence. The girls come around again with slips of paper and sticks of charcoal, and everyone writes a wish for the coming year. Since they're going to be burnt unread as an offering to the gods, Erik carefully writes _Charles by my side _and folds it in half.__

Frost leads the last prayer, and then the wishes are mixed with volatile powders and thrown into the flames in a last crescendo of gongs, bells, drums, and horns, making loud popping and banging noises as they throw out sparks and accelerate the flames, coloring them with the entire visible spectrum. After watching the show for a while, it is finally permissible to go to bed. Charles shepherds Raven off to her room while Erik goes to his. Nice as it is having Charles help him with everything, Erik enjoys having a bit of solitude to change into a robe and laze by the fire, digging through his bag of little solstice gifts from Frost. He has to assume everyone has gotten the same. It's a nice little assortment of dried fruit, nuts, hard candies, a scented candle, a small but beautifully illustrated tract on the solstice myth, a tiny packet of the powder burned with the wishes, and something like a silver coin, with the silhouette of a wolf punched through it. The edges are well smoothed, and Erik is meditatively stroking them with his powers when Charles comes back. 

_You look comfortable, sir._

_I am._ Erik sets the bag aside and reaches for Charles, who beams at him, coming to sit on his lap, resting his head on his shoulder and yawning. 

"Oh, sir. I have to get out of these clothes eventually, but it's so much effort." 

"While you're working up the will to face this immense task, tell me what my charm really means." 

He chuckles. "It is a good luck charm, but also commonly given as a token of the type of fondness I feel for you between people of the same sex. It's too much like real jewelry for a man and woman." 

"I see," Erik says softly, kissing him. "I have another gift for you." 


	22. Chapter 22

It's difficult to keep secrets from a powerful telepath, no matter how well-mannered he is, but Charles really does seem surprised. Erik sends him to change out of his formal clothes as he goes and digs through his personal trunk for a tiny box. He brings it out to Charles, who thanks him prettily before opening it and staring so long that it makes Erik nervous.

"Damn it, do you like it or not?" he growls, hating the way he sounds. He's far from ashamed of a strong and delicate anklet of blue-green dichroic glass that will shimmer like the sea against Charles's skin, but he can't help it.

"It's _beautiful_ ," Charles breathes, "it's beautiful and I know you made it." He sounds so impressed that Erik can feel himself blushing and rolls his eyes.

"I'm glad you like it," he says. "I put it together while we were becalmed on our way north, and I decided to give it to you a while ago. Something else to remember me by."

Charles gives him a strange, sad look, and then leaps up from his chair and kisses him, holding him tightly for a long time before pulling away to put the anklet on. He holds it out for Erik to admire, but before he can start kissing his way up Charles's leg as a gesture of appreciation, he pulls it away. "Hank is here."

Sure enough, Hank has come to invite them to Frost's chambers for a last drink, with a clear subtext that it's not so much an invitation as a summons. In the name of propriety they must dress again, but in the name of humanity are allowed to wear robes over tunics and leggings.

Frost's chambers are hung in snowy white, with silver, platinum, and diamond ornaments that make Erik feel cold. The fire is hot, though, and the divans beside it are soft. Frost is wearing a robe of her own over some of sort of shift and a pair of leggings. She catches Erik's glance at her feet, and smiles. "Improper, yes, but much warmer than the alternative. Now, I know both of you must be tired, and the She-Wolf knows I am. But I need to talk to you as friends. Hank, be a dear and fetch us that ice wine over there?" Hank bows, going and getting the glasses, the bottle, and a plate of trimmings onto a tray, bringing it over and setting it before Frost and then standing at attention and blushing. She smiles, and gestures to the floor at her feet. Hank goes from pink to red, but obediently kneels on the fur rug. Frost guides his head to rest on her knee and pours for three. "Now, you gave me a lot of lovely personal solstice gifts, Lensherr. Your taste is very elegant."

"Thank you," Erik says, sipping the sweet wine.

"In return, I offer you something very precious." She pauses, smiling at Charles. His eyes are like two stars, and he's quivering a little, like an eager but well-trained dog. "Erik Lensherr, I give you the remaining years of Charles Xavier's contract."

"...What?" Erik stares at her and Charles laughs, going to kneel on the other side of her from Hank, nuzzling her leg.

_Thank you so much, mistress._

"I... I can't bring a slave to Genosha," Erik says, the words like ashes in his mouth. The hurt look Charles turns on him doesn't help at all.

"Manumission is an option," Frost says, stroking Charles's hair. "I would recommend doing so on the ship. He'll be a free man in Genosha, and will be out of his stepfather's reach."

"If I'm freed here, he can demand my return," Charles adds, pressing a little closer to Frost.

"Charles," Erik asks, "do you truly want to be my gift?"

"More than almost anything else," Charles says softly, and Erik shivers.

"All right." He holds out a hand and Charles comes crawling to him, sinuous and beautiful. He kneels at Erik's feet and coos when Erik reaches down to pet him. There's a long, quiet moment, and then Frost speaks softly, something inconsequential about hoping Erik enjoyed the party. He replies the same way, fascinated to see her feeding Hank little sips of wine from her own cup. Charles returns to his initial seat, glowing. They all slowly finish their wine and Erik thanks Frost as he gets up to go, glad that her gift will let her know how much he really means the words. "We'll find our own way," Erik says when Hank raises his head, "Hank looks too comfortable to disturb."

Frost smiles, wide, sweet, unguarded, and devastating. She's always beautiful, but so much love in her face she _shines_. Charles takes Erik's hand, squeezing it as they walk out.

_I know you like women as well, but that's the first time I've ever felt it._

_I've been worrying about you this whole time,_ Erik replies, and Charles laughs.

They have to talk business when they reach their quarters, but they're too tired to do it for long. Charles has another four years left, no special limits on his contract, and understands that they won't be able to just lie around together in Genosha. 

"More's the pity," Erik adds, wrapping around him from behind and snuggling a little deeper under the pile of blankets. "You said you had clerical work on your contract, and that will be valuable. Far too many of us are illiterate or nearly so."

Charles sighs, turning in Erik's arms and nuzzling into the hollow of his throat. "I'll be glad to help. Though I will need more than one week to put _all_ my affairs in order."

"Of course." Erik yawns, blinking his eyes open for a moment before giving up.

"Drafting the letter about that in the morning, hm?"

"Mm," Erik agrees, hugging Charles and breathing with him in the dark until they slide together into a green and humid dream of Genosha.


End file.
